UC-NRLF 


SB    2T    IhD 


.;• 


LIBRARY 

OF   THE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Received 
Accession  No. 


OF1 


Cliiss  No. 


.., 


iRISfiHPOETS 


PROFUSELY  ILLUSTRATED  AND  EMBRACING 


COMPLETE  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF  THOSE  WHO  AT  HOME  AND 

ABROAD  HAVE  SUSTAINED  THE  REPUTATION  OF  IRELAND 

AS  THE  LAND  OF  SONG  AND  STORY 


COPIOUS  SELECTIONS  FROM  THEIR  WRITINGS 

BY 

REV.  D.  O.  CROWLEY 

President  of  the  Youths'  Directory 


INTRODUCTION  BY 

THOMAS   R.    BANNERMAN 


"  Carmine  fit  vivax  virtus,  expersque  sepulcri, 
Notitiam  serse  posteritatis  habet." 

THE  fame  of  great  and  noble  deeds, 
"Wing'd  with  his  matchless  lore, 

The  poet's  pen  sends  echoing  down 
To  Time's  remotest  shore. 


1892 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1892,  by 

D.  O.  CROWLEY, 
In  the  Office  of  the  librarian  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  P.  J.  THOMAS, 
505  Clay  St.,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 


PREFACE. 


IN  presenting  this  volume  to  the  public,  the  editor 
claims  for  his  share  no  other  merit  than  that 
of  accuracy  in  the  biographical  data  which  have 
been  collected  from  different  sources  at  the  cost  of 
considerable  time,  and  not  without  labor.  All  other 
merits  belong  to  the  gifted  children  of  the  Gael 
whose  life-trials  and  triumphs  he  has  endeavored  to 
portray. 

Irish  literature  is  not  wanting  in  collections  of 
songs  and  ballads.  It  is  admitted  on  every  side  that 
the  songs  of  Erin  stand  unrivaled;  and  both  in 
quantity  and  quality  her  ballad-poetry  ranks  next 
after  that  of  Scotland.  But,  up  to  a  very  recent  date, 
comparatively  little  has  been  done  towards  preserving 
biographies  of  those  to  whom  she  is  indebted  for 
such  priceless  treasures.  A  few  books  have  of  late 
been  printed  in  the  United  States  with  a  view  to 
remedy  this  defect;  but  they  are  all  so  bulky  and,  in 
many  instances,  so  badly  bound  as  to  render  them 
useless,  except  as  works  of  reference.  Besides,  the 
price  of  those  tomes  is  so  high  that  it  places  them 

beyond  the  reach  of  the  mass  of  our  people. 

(iii.) 


IV.  PBEFACE. 

It  is,  therefore,  to  supply  a  popular  want  that  these 
sketches  and  poems  have  been  collected  from  the 
pages  of  the  Celtic  Magazine,  in  which  they  first 
appeared  under  the  title  they  still  retain. 

The  portrait  of  Richard  D'Alton  Williams  which 
appears  in  this  work  is  the  only  one  ever  published 
of  that  graceful  and  gifted  writer.  The  miniature 
ivory  portrait,  of  which  our  frontispiece  is  a  faithful 
copy,  was  made  when  " Shamrock"  had  the  honor  of 
being  a  political  prisoner,  in  Newgate,  on  account  of 
his  participation  in  the  'Forty-Eight  movement. 
This  is  the  first  and  only  one  ever  taken  of  him. 
As  the  reader  will  readily  observe,  he  was  sketched 
in  prison  garb.  His  sole  surviving  son,  Mr.  Dal  ton 
Williams  of  New  Orleans,  was  good  enough  to  have  a 
copy  made  specially  for  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS — 
a  favor  which  is  highly  appreciated. 

The  portrait  of  that  sweet  charmer  of  the  lyre, 
James  Joseph  Callanan,  so  far  as  can  be  learned,  has 
never  before  appeared  in  print.  The  one  that  accom- 
panies his  life-sketch  in  the  present  work  is  supposed 
to  have  been  taken  in  his  native  city  before  he  left 
forever  the  land  of  his  love. 

Here  also  the  reader  will  find,  for  the  first  time 
in  extenso,  a  memoir  of  that  genuine  poet  and  patri- 
otic Irishman,  Bartholomew  Dowling,  who  has  done 
good  work  in  the  domain  of  Irish  literature.  Like 


PBEFACE.  V. 


most  men  of  genius  he  was  modest,  and  wrote  seem- 
ingly without  any  intention  of  leaving  his  work  be- 
hind him  in  a  collective  form.  The  disjecta  membra 
poetae  have,  however,  been  gathered  together  in  this 
volume.  The  consciousness  of  having  assisted  in 
rescuing  the  poems  of  this  excellent  author  from  the 
brink  of  oblivion  more  than  compensates  for  the 
labor  expended  on  the  entire  book. 

It  may  be  objected  that  we  have  omitted  many  of 
Ireland's  best  poetical  writers  here.  Very  true;  the 
author  of  the  Irish  Melodies  is  not  mentioned;  nor 
are  many  others  of  greater  note  than  some  of  those 
represented,  because  we  seek  not  so  much  to  increase 
the  fame  of  well-known  poets  as  to  popularize  those 
comparatively  unknown,  but  whose  works,  neverthe- 
less, entitle  them  to  our  gratitude  and  admiration. 

THE  EDITOR. 


UIIT 


INTRODUCTION. 


|  HE  ruthless  efforts  of  the  British  Government 

JL    to  degrade  and  stifle  the  mental  energies  of 

the  Irish  people  are  little  known  to  the  great 

mass  of  their  descendants   in   these   later   days   of 

intellectual  freedom.     Occasional  mention  is  made 

of  the  atrocious  Penal  Code,  which,  even  as  recently 

as  the  beginning  of  the  present  century,  was  enforced 

by  those  of  whom  the  immortal  Davis  wrote: 

'  They  bribed  the  flock,  they  bribed  the  son, 

To  sell  the  priest  and  rob  the  sire; 
Their  dogs  were  taught  alike  to  run 
Upon  the  scent  of  wolf  and  friar." 

But  how  few,  even  amongst  the  friends  of  the 
Irish  cause,  are  intimately  familiar  with  the  text 
and  the  means  employed  for  the  execution  of  those 
monstrous  enactments  against  the  acquirement  and 
dissemination  of  human  knowledge! 

The  question  involves  one  of  the  darkest  pages  of 
history  and  possesses  a  deep  import  for  all  who 
belong  either  closely  or  remotely  to  that  widely- 
scattered  but  ambitious  and  hopeful  part  of  the 
world's  population  known  as  the  Irish  Nation.  The 
Goths  and  Vandals,  sweeping  down  from  the  shores 
of  the  Baltic  and  razing  to  the  earth  the  temples  of 
art  and  science,  were  less  malignant  in  their  purpose 

(vii.) 


Vlll.  INTRODUCTION. 

than  the  statesmen  who  framed  those  statutes  for  the 
suppression  of  education  in  Ireland.  The  former, 
rude  and  barbarous,  destroyed  the  fountain  of  know- 
ledge but  spared  the  stream  that  supplied  it,  whilst 
the  latter,  with  ripe  experience  in  the  ways  of  civili- 
zation, not  only  shattered  the  receptacle  but  also 
penetrated  to  the  depths  in  order  to  obstruct  the 
current  upon  which  a  nation  depended  for  intellec- 
tual existence.  All  the  furies  of  a  merciless  tyranny 
were  directed  against  the  schoolmasters  of  Ireland 
by  a  monarchy  which  boasted  of  its  own  wealth  of 
learning  and  the  liberality  of  its  patronage  of  art 
and  literature.  It  was  not  the  semi-barbarous  Goth 
but  the  civilized  Anglo-Norman  of  the  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  centuries  that  proved  the  greatest 
scourge  of  knowledge  in  Ireland.  It  was  not  the 
wild  tribesmen  from  the  mountains  of  Northern 
Europe,  but  the  titled  courtiers  and  mail-clad  war- 
riors from  the  land  of  Shakespeare,  of  Bacon,  of 
Macauley  and  of  Locke,  that  rifled  the  archives  of 
the  Irish  monasteries  and  wantonly  destroyed  the 
ancient  treasures  of  a  nation  of  scholars.  The 
spectacle  of  a  people  made  helplessly  illiterate  by 
process  of  law  should  excite  resentment  in  the  mind 
of  every  lover  of  justice.  It  should  also  stand  as  a 
barrier  for  the  protection  of  their  descendants,  so 
frequently  subjected  to  humiliation  and  reproach 
by  those  who  are  either  ignorant  of  or  otherwise 
blindly  prejudiced  to  the  facts  of  history. 

During  recent  generations  the  people  of  Ireland, 
both  at  home  and  abroad,  were  but  too  often  com- 


INTRODUCTION.  IX. 

pelled  to  hear  the  coarsely-insulting  designation, 
"  ignorant  Irish  " — a  phrase  which  found  its  origin 
upon  the  lips  of  the  very  enemies  who  despoiled 
their  country's  institutions  of  learning,  and  after- 
wards, by  means  of  the  most  infamous  legislation, 
sought  to  obliterate  every  vestige  of  their  former 
enlightenment. 

This  galling  insult  burned  deeply  into  the  hearts 
of  millions  who  keenly  felt  its  injustice  whilst  be- 
holding in  the  ivy-clad  ruins  of  their  beloved  "Insula 
Sanctorum"  the  proofs  that  they  were  not  ignorant 
by  choice,  but  because  of  the  Nero-like  persecution 
waged  against  the  teachers  who  would  have  instructed 
them. 

The  skeleton  of  the  Penal  Code  should  not  be  per- 
mitted to  lie  undisturbed  in  the  closet  of  imperial 
England. 

Justice  to  the  Irish  people  of  the  present,  as  well 
as  to  the  memory  of  those  of  the  past,  demands  that 
the  monstrous  relic  should  be  exposed.  Ours  is  an 
age  of  investigation  and  progress;  and  it  is  due  the 
educated  Irish  of  to-day  as  well  as  their  descendants 
in  this  thrice-blessed  land  of  freedom  that  the  reason 
of  the  existence  of  the  so-called  "  ignorant  Irish  "  of 
years  gone  by  should  be  fully  and  effectively  ex- 
plained. The  utterance  of  Burke  should  be  known 
and  remembered  by  all  who  would  bear  testimony 
to  the  iniquitous  character  of  the  Penal  Code  and 
its  blighting  effects  upon  the  inhabitants  of  Ireland. 
"It  was,"  says  the  eminent  statesman,  "a  machine 
of  wise  and  elaborate  contrivance,  and  as  well  fitted 


X.  INTRODUCTION. 

for  the  oppression,  impoverishment  and  degradation 
of  a  people,  and  the  debasement  in  them  of  human 
nature  itself,  as  ever  proceeded  from  the  perverted 
ingenuity  of  man."  With  such  a  machine  in  opera- 
tion it  is  not  at  all  surprising  that  the  tree  of 
knowledge  ceased  to  bear  fruit  amongst  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Erin.  On  the  contrary,  being  so  per- 
fectly equipped  for  the  accomplishment  of  evil,  it  is 
simply  a  wonder  that  the  fell  purpose  of  those  who 
introduced  the  engine  of  destruction  was  not  wholly 
consummated.  The  Irish  people  were  oppressed, 
impoverished,  and  degraded ;  but  not  all  the  fiendish 
ingenuity  of  their  enemies  could  produce  "  the  de- 
basement in  them  of  human  nature  itself."  As  a 
nation,  they  have  never  borne  the  taint  of  debase- 
ment. Even  from  the  remote  period  of  their  exalted 
paganism  down  to  the  days  of  the  present  they  have 
been  distinguished  as  the  guardians  of  social  purity, 
the  patrons  of  chivalry  and  the  devoted  conservators 
of  song  and  story.  The  authors  of  the  Penal  Code 
succeeded  in  depriving  them  of  the  benefits  of  educa- 
tion, but  struggled  in  vain  to  destroy  their  love  and 
loyalty  for  the  "  Soggarth  Aroon "  and  the  ever- 
faithful  poet,  by  whose  ministry  and  lays  they  were 
alone  preserved  from  spiritual  and  national  decay. 
This  love  and  loyalty,  born  in  the  dark  days  of 
oppression  and  still  active  and  unwavering  in  the 
hearts  of  millions,  is  most  felicitously  commemo- 
rated in  the  pages  of  the  volume  herewith  given  to 
the  public. 

The  pen  of  the  reverend  author  could  not  have 


INTEODUCTION.  XJ 

been  more  fittingly  employed  than  in  spreading  the 
fame  of  those  who,  without  the  expectation  of  mate- 
rial reward,  devoted  their  genius  and  talents  to  a 
poor  and  helpless  motherland  in  order  that  she 
might  perpetuate  the  existence  of  her  ancient 
nationhood.  His  patient  research  has  brought  to 
this  work  much  valuable  information  which  has 
never  before  appeared  in  print,  and  which,  were  it 
not  for  his  exertions,  might  have  been  lost  to  Irish 
biographical  literature. 

This  is  notably  illustrated  in  the  case  of  that  con- 
summate poet  and  ardent  patriot,  Bartholomew 
Dowling,  whose  life  and  labors  are  here  published 
for  the  first  time,  and  whose  career  must  possess  a 
special  interest  for  those  whose  lot  like  his  own  was 
cast  on  the  golden  shores  of  the  Pacific,  whence,  to 
use  his  own  words, 

' '  That  poet's  song  doth  now  go  forth 

To  many  a  distant  shore, 
To  fling  around  his  land  of  birth 
A  glory  evermore." 

The  survivors  of  the  patriotic  Boys  of  '65  to  '67 
will  also  read  with  especial  pleasure  the  pages  devoted 
to  the  biography  of  the  gifted  Dowling. 

It  will  bring  back  to  their  minds  the  fervent  out- 
pourings of  patriotic  sentiment  to  which  they  lis- 
tened, in  those  hidden  gatherings  of  more  than  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago,  by  the  banks  of  the  Liffey, 
the  Blackwater  or  the  Shannon. 

As  in  a  dream  they  will  listen,  once  again,  to  a 
deep- toned  voice  singing  the  glories  of  "The  Brigade 


Xll.  INTRODUCTION. 

at  Fontenoy,"  whilst  a  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  or  an 
Edmund  O'Donovan  will  give  ghostly  approval  to 
the  author  of  the  soul-stirring  strains : 

* '  By  our  camp  fires  rose  a  murmur 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day, 
And  the  tread  of  many  footsteps, 

Spoke  the  advent  of  the  fray." 

Another  particularly  interesting  and  most  valuable 
feature  of  the  volume  is  the  publication,  also  for  the 
first  time,  of  the  portrait  of  the  versatile  and  sub- 
limely-endowed Richard  D'Altoii  Williams.  The 
reverend  biographer  has  aimed  to  present  as  fully  as 
possible  the  distinguishing  traits  of  this  fondly-re- 
membered poet,  and  that  he  has  succeeded,  is  amply 
shown  by  the  fascinating  sketch  in  which  he  pictures 
the  genius  and  virtue  of  him  who  wrote — 

' '  When  I  slumber  in  the  gloom 
Of  a  nameless  foreign  tomb 
By  a  distant  ocean's  boom. " 

Happily,  the  anticipations  of  the  exile  poet  were 
not  long  fulfilled.  His  tomb,  as  we  are  so  beautifully 
informed,  was  not  allowed  to  remain  nameless.  All 
praise  to  the  noble-hearted  soldiers  who  accomplished 
the  chivalrous  and  patriotic  duty  of  honoring  the  last 
resting  place  of  Richard  D'Alton  Williams. 

The  most  liberal  support  should  be  ungrudgingly 
given  to  those  who  compile  and  preserve  the  "  mate- 
rials for  a  true  and  complete  history  of  Ireland, "  and 
it  is  therefore  cordially  hoped  that  such  support  and 
patronage  may  be  freely  extended  to  IRISH  POETS 
AND  NOVELISTS. 

T.R.B. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


RICHARD  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS— 

Page. 

Biography 1 

The  Munster  War  Song 3 

Sister  of  Charity 5 

The  Dying  Girl 8 

Adieu  to  Innisfail  12 

The  Patriot  Brave 16 

God  Bless  the  Brave  (McGee) 18 

Dies  Irae 19 

Kathleen 24 

The  Pass  of  Plumes 25 

The  Extermination 29 

BARTHOLOMEW  DOWLING — 

Portrait 30 

Memoir 31 

Theodore  Korner 37 

Prayer  During  Battle 39 

Death  Song  of  the  Viking 44 

The  Brigade  at  Fontenoy 45 

Hymn  of  the  Imperial  Guard 48 

Hurrah  for  the  Next  that  Dies 50 

The  Foreign  Shamrock 52 

Odors 53 

Sarsfield's  Sortie 54 

The  Vision  of  King  Brian 57 

In  Vain 60 

Song  of  the  '82  Club 61 

Launching  "  La  Gloire" 62 

The  Capture  of  Paris 64 

(xiii.) 


XIV.  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

The  Song  of  the  Cossack 66 

The  Midnight  Watch 68 

The  Assault  on  Limerick 70 

A  Reminiscence  of  the  Mines 72 

The  Relief  of  Lucknow 75 

Mort  Sur  Champs  D'Honneur 77 

JOHN  BANIM— 

Biographical  Sketch 79 

Portrait 80 

Advice  to  Young  Writers ...  89 

Call  from  Home   91 

Names  of  his  Principal  Works 96 

Jeffrey's  Opinion  of  Soggarth  Aroon 97 

He  said  that  He  was  not  Our  Brother 99 

Aileen 100 

The  Irish  Maiden's  Song 102 

REV.  C.  P.  MEEHAN— 

Biographical  Sketch 103 

Boyhood's  Years 103 

Portrait 104 

Defence  of  Mangan 105 

Leo's  Tribute  to  Father  Meehan 106 

The  Patriot's  Wife Ill 

Hearts  that  are  Great  Beat  never  Loud 116 

The  Fall  of  the  Leaves 118 

The  Battle  of  Benburb 121 

FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN— 

Biographical  Sketch 125 

Portrait 126 

Loch  Ine 127 

Kane 130 

Bacchus 134 

Irish  Castles .  .  137 


CONTENTS.  XV. 
GERALD  GRIFFIN— 

Page. 

Biographical  Sketch 139 

Portrait 140 

Adare 144 

Old  Times 146 

Why  Has  my  Soul  been  Given  ? 150 

O'Brazil,  the  Isle  of  the  Blest 155 

Tis,  it  is  the  Shannon  Stream 157 

The  Bridal  of  Malahide 159 

When  Filled  with  Thoughts 162 

For  I  am  Desolate 163 

My  Mary  of  the  Curling  Hair 164 

Gille  Ma  Chree 165 

A  Place  in  thy  Memory,  Dearest 168 

Lines  to  a  Sea  Gull 169 

Monody  on  Griffin  (McGee) 170 

REV.  CHAS.  WOLFE — 

Biographical  Sketch v 173 

At  the  Grave  of  Rev.  C.  Wolfe  (Mrs.  Piatt) 177 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 178 

If  I  had  Thought 179 

Oh!  Say  not  That 181 

Go!  Forget  Me 182 

CHARLES  GRAHAM  HALPINE — 

Biographical  Sketch 183 

The  Fall  of  Richmond '189 

Raising  a  Monument  to  the  Irish  Legion 191 

Janette's  Hair 195 

Not  a  Star  from  the  Flag  shall  Fade 197 

Stamping  Out  198 

The  Flaunting  Lie 200 

Sambo's  Right  to  be  Kilt 201 

JAMES  JOSEPH  CALLANAN— 

Biographical  Sketch 203 

Portrait..                                                                        .  204 


Xvi.  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Spirit  of  Song 208 

Dirge  of  O'Sullivan  Beare 212 

Gougane  Barra 217 

The  Virgin  Mary's  Bank 219 

The  Star  of  Heaven 220 

0  Say,  My  Brown  Drimin , 221 

Lament  for  Ireland 222 

Address  to  Greece 224 

The  Mother  of  the  Macchabees 226 

Lines  to  the  Blessed  Sacrament 228 

The  Exile's  Farewell 230 

Lines  to  Erin. 231 

Stanzas  231 

A  Lay  of  Mizen  Head 232 

REV.  MICHAEL  MULLIN— 

Biographical  Sketch 235 

Portrait 236 

Arthur  McCoy 237 

Lament  for  the  Celtic  Tongue 244 

ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE — 

Biographical  Sketch 247 

Portrait 248 

1  am  Suffering,  and  I  Know 251 

Hogan's  Tribute 254 

The  Palace  Garden 257 

The  Blacksmith  of  Limerick 260 

Sweet  Glengariffs  Water 263 

The  Green  and  the  Gold 264 

The  Rapparee's  Horse  and  Sword 265 

The  Cailin  Rue 266 

The  Sack  of  Dunbuie 267 

Sarsfield's  Ride;  The  Ambush  of  Sliav  Bloom 272 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN— 

Portrait 280 

Biographical  Sketch 281 


CONTENTS.  xvii. 

Page. 

And  Then  No  More 283 

The  Nameless  One 284 

The  Ideal 289 

Irish  National  Hymn 289 

The  Dying  Flower 290 

Highway  for  Freedom 296 

The  Woman  of  Three  Cows 297 

The  Fair  Hills  of  Erie,  0! 300 

Soul  and  Country 301 

Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-Red  Hand 303 

Lament  for  Banba 305 

The  Time  of  the  Barmecides 307 

The  Poet's  Preaching 309 

To  Joseph  Brennan 311 

Ireland  Under  Irish  Rule 313 

O  Maria,  Regina  Misericordiae 314 

REV.  A.  J.  RYAN — 

Biographical  Sketch  317 

Portrait 318 

Longfellow  to  Father  Ryan 318 

In  Memory  of  my  Brother 323 

Their  Story  Runneth  Thus 326 

The  Conquered  Banner 330 

Lines-  -1875 332 

Erin's  Flag 334 

Song  of  the  Mystic 336 

THOMAS  D'ARCY  McGEE— 

Memoir 339 

Portrait 340 

Parting  from  Ireland 344 

Wishing  Cap 351 

The  Homeward  Bound 353 

The  Celtic  Cross 354 

Salutation  to  the  Celts 356 

The  Exile's  Request 357 


XV111.  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

The  Living  and  Dead 358 

To  a  Friend  in  Australia 359 

Consolation 360 

The  Exile's  Devotion 361 

The  Dying  Celt  to  his  American  Son. 363 

The  Virgin  Mary's  Knight 364 

Amergin's  Anthem 366 

The  Celts 368 

The  Irish  Wife 370 

If  Will  had  Wings 371 

A  Legend  of  St.  Patrick 372 

SAMUEL  LOVER— 

Biography 375 

Portrait 376 

My  Mountain  Home 376 

In  Honor  of  Moore 378 

Handy  Andy 384 

The  Four-Leaved  Shamrock 391 

Eory  O'More 394 

Molly  Bawn 394 

Angel's  Whisper 395 

The  Fairy  Boy , 396 

REV.  FRANCIS  MAHONY  (FATHER  PROUT) — 

Memoir 397 

Portrait 398 

In  Pulchram  Lactiferam 405 

The  Bells  of  Shandon 407 

The  Groves  of  Blarney 410 

Ode  to  Chateaubriand 412 

Don  Ignatio  Loyola's  Vigil 415 

The  Tri-Color 416 

Pray  for  Me 418 

Battle  of  Lepanto 419 

Ode  to  the  Wig  of  Boscovich 421 

Michael  Angelo's  Farewell 422 

The  Death  of  Father  Prout. .  .  423 


ALPHABETICAL  INDEX. 


Page. 

Adare Griffin 144 

Address  to  Greece Callanan 224 

Adieu  to  Innisfail Williams 12 

Advice  to  Young  Writers Banim 89 

Aileen Banim 100 

Amergin's  Anthem McGee 366 

Angel's  Whisper Lover 395 

And  Then  No  More Mangan 283 

A  Place  in  thy  Memory Griffin 168 

Arthur  McCoy Meehan 237 

Assault  on  Limerick,  The Dowling 70 

At  the  Grave  of  Wolfe Piatt 177 

Bacchus O'Brien 134 

Battle  of  Benburb,  The Meehan 121 

Battle  of  Lepanto Mahony 419 

Bells  of  Shandon Mahony 407 

Blacksmith  of  Limerick,  The Joyce 260 

Boyhood's  Years Meehan 103 

Bridal  of  Malahide,  The Griffin 159 

Brigade  at  Fontenoy ,  The Dowling 45 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  The Wolfe 178 

Cailin  Rue,  The Joyce 266 

Cahil  Mor  of  the  Wine-Red  Hand Mangan 303 

Call  from  Home Banim 91 

Capture  of  Paris,  The Dowling 64 

Celtic  Cross,  The McGee 368 

Conquered  Banner,  The Ryan.    . ". 330 

Consolation McGee 360 

(xix.) 


XX.  ALPHABETICAL  INDEX. 

Pape. 

Death  of  Father  Prout MacCarthy 423 

Death  Song  of  the  Viking Dowling 44 

Defence  of  Mangan Meehan 105 

Dies  Irae Williams 19 

Dirge  of  O'Sullivan  Beare Callanan 212 

Don  Ignatio  Loyola Mahony 415 

Dying  Celt,  The McOee 363 

Dying  Flower,  The Mangan 290 

Dying  Girl,  The Williams 8 

Erin's  Flag Ryan 334 

Exile's  Devotion,  The McGee 361 

Exile's  Farewell,  The Callanan 230 

Exile's  Request,  The McGee 357 

Extermination,  The Williams 29 

Fair  Hills  of  Erie,  O!  The Mangan 300 

Fairy  Boy,  The Lover 396 

Fall  of  the  Leaves,  The Meehan 118 

Fall  of  Richmond,  The Halpine 189 

Flaunting  Lie,  The Halpine 200 

Foreign  Shamrock,  The Dowling 52 

For  I  am  Desolate Griffin 163 

Four-Leaved  Shamrock Lover 391 

Gille  Machree Griffin 165 

God  Bless  the  Brave McGee 18 

Go!  Forget  Me   Wolfe 182 

Gougane  Barra Callanan 217 

Green  and  Gold,  The Joyce 264 

Groves  of  Blarney,  The Mahony 410 

Handy  Andy LOVPT 384 

Hearts  that  are  Great  Beat  never  Loud. .  ..Meehan 116 

He  said  that  He  was  not  our  Brother Banim 99 

Highway  for  Freedom Mangan 296 

Hogan's  Tribute Joyce 254 

Homeward  Bound,  The McGee 353 


ALPHABETICAL  INDEX.  xxj. 

Page. 

Hurrah  for  the  Next  that  Dies Dowling 50 

Hymn  of  the  Imperial  Guard Dowling 48 

I  am  Suffering  and  I  Know Joyce 251 

Ideal,  the Mangan 289 

If  I  had  Thought Wolfe 179 

If  Will  had  Wings McGee 371 

In  Honor  of  Moore Lover 378 

In  Memory  of  my  Brother  Ryan 323 

In  Pulchram  Lactif eram Mdhony 405 

In  Vain Dowling 60 

Ireland  Under  Irish  Rule Mangan 313 

Irish  Castles O'Brien 137 

Irish  Maiden's  Song,  The Banim 102 

Irish  National  Hymn Mangan 289 

Janette's  Hair Halpine 195 

Jeffrey's  Opinion  of  Soggarth  Aroon Banim 97 

Joseph  Brennan,  To.  ... Mangan 311 

Kane O'Brien 130 

Kathleen Williams 24 

Lament  for  Banba   .........   Mangan 305 

Lament  for  the  Celtic  Tongue Mullin 244 

Lament  for  Ireland Callanan 222 

Launching  "  La  Gloire  " Dowling 62 

Lay  of  Mizen  Head,  A Caltanan 372 

Legend  of  St.  Patrick,  A McOee 372 

Leo's  Tribute  to  Father  Meehan 106 

Lines— 1875 Ryan 332 

Lines  to  Erin Callanan 231 

Lines  to  the  Blessed  Sacrament Callanan 228 

Lines  to  a  Sea  Gull Griffin 169 

Living  and  Dead,  The McGee 358 

Loch  Ine O'Brien 127 

Longfellow  to  Father  Ryan 318 


xxil.  ALPHABETICAL  INDEX. 

Page. 

Michael  Angelo's  Farewell Mahony 422 

Midnight  Watch,  The Dowling 68 

Molly  Bawn Lover 394 

Monody  on  Griffin McGee 170 

Mort  Sur  Champ  d'Honneur Dowling 77 

Mother  of  the  Macchabees,  The Callanan 226 

Munster  War  Song,  The Williams 3 

My  Irish  Wife McGee 370 

My  Mary  of  the  Curling  Hair Griffin 164 

My  Mountain  Home Lover 3<T3 

Nameless  One,  The Mangan 2&j 

Names  of  His  Principal  Works Banim 96 

Not  a  Star  from  the  Flag  Shall  Fade Ealpine 197 

O'Brazil,  the  Isle  of  the  Blest Griffin 155 

Ode  to  Chateaubriand Mahony 412 

Ode  to  the  Wig  of  Father  Boscovich Mahony 421 

Odors Dowling 53 

Oh!  Say  not  That Wolfe 181 

Old  Times Griffin 146 

O  Maria,  Regina  Misericordiae Mangan 314: 

O  Say,  My  Brown  Drimin Callanan 221 

Palace  Garden,  The Joyce 257 

Parting  from  Ireland McGee 344 

Pass  of  Plumes Williams 25 

Patriot  Brave,  The Williams 16 

Patriot's  Wife,  The Meehan Ill 

Poet's  Preaching Mangan 309 

Prayer  During  Battle Dowling 39 

Pray  for  Me   Mahony 418 

Raising  a  Monument  to  the  Irish  Legion  .   Halpine 191 

Rapparee's  Horse  and  Sword,  The Joyce 265 

Relief  of   Lucknow Dowling.  75 

Reminiscence  of  the  Mines,  A Dowling 72 

Rory  O'More Lover  .  .             .  393 


ALPHABETICAL  INDEX.  XXlll. 

Page. 

Sack  of  Dunbuie Joyce 267 

Salutation  to  the  Celts McGee 356 

Sambo's  Right  to  be  Kilt Halpine 201 

Sarstield's  Ride;  the  Ambush  of  Sliav  Bloom.  Joyce 272 

Sarsfield's  Sortie Dowling .54 

Sister  of  Charity , Williams 5 

Soggarth  Aroon Banim    97 

Song  of  the  Cossack,  The Dowling.. 66 

Song  of  the  '82  Club Dowling. .....  61 

Song  of  the  Mystic Ryan 336 

Soul  and  Country Mangan 301 

Spirit  of  Song Callanan 208 

Stamping  Out Halpine 198 

Stanzas Callanan 231 

Star  of  Heaven,  The Callanan 220 

Sweet  Glengariff  s  Water Joyce 263 

Their  Story  Runneth  Thus Ryan 326 

Theodore  Korner Dowling 37 

Time  of  the  Barmecides,  The Mangan 307 

Tis,  It  is  the  Shannon  Stream Griffin 157 

To  a  Friend  in  Australia  McGee 359 

Tri-color,  The Mahony 416 

Virgin  Mary's  Bank,  The Callanan. .....  219 

Virgin  Mary's  Knight,  The McGee 364 

Vision  of  King  Brian,  The Dowling 57 

When  Filled  with  Thoughts Griffin 162 

Why  has  my  Soul  been  Given Griffin 150 

Wishing  Cap ......    McGee 351 

Woman  of  Three  Cows,  The Mangan '297 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Page. 

Banim,  John 80 

Callanan,  James  Joseph 204 

Bowling,  Bartholomew 31 

Griffin,  Gerald 140 

Halpine,  C.  G 183 

Joyce,  R.  D 248 

Lover,  Samuel 379 

Mahony,  Francis  (Rev.) 398 

Mangan.  J.  C 281 

Meehan,  C.  P.  (Rev.) 104 

McGee,  T.  D 340 

Mullin,  Michael  (Rev.) 236 

O'Brien,  Fitz-James 126 

Ryan,  A.  J.  (Rev.) 318 

Williams,  R.  D 1 

(xxiv.) 


RICHARD    D'ALTON    WILLIAMS, 

POET,  PHYSICIAN   AND    PROFESSOR. 

HILE  this  singer,  whose   sweet  songs   have 
charmed  two    generations   of    readers    at 
home  and  abroad,  doth 

Slumber  in  the  gloom 

Of  a  nameless,  foreign  tomb, 

Innisfail  keeps  his  memory  fresh  and  green. 

The  life's  history  of  every  man  who  devotes  his 
days  to  literary  pursuits  is  easily  told;  and  that  of 
Richard  D'Alton  Williams  is  no  exception  to  this 
general  rule.  Born  in  the  city  of  Dublin,  October 
8th,  1822,  the  future  bard  was  taken  at  a  very  early 
age  to  Grenanstown,  in  the  County  Tipperary,  where 
he  spent  his  boyhood  years.  He  was  of  a  shy,  sen- 
sitive disposition,  fond  of  poetry,  fairy  lore,  and  of 
solitary  rambles  by  the  limpid  rills  and  sombre 
clefts  that  abound  in  the  vicinity  of  the  "  Devil's 
Bit."  His  poetic  imagination  grew  strong  and  vivid 
among  the  gorges  of  Tipperary  mountains,  where  his 
youthful  footsteps  often  disturbed  the  eagles  from 
their  lofty  perches  as  his  brave  little  heart  bounded 
with  delight  to  watch  them  sailing  gracefully  across 


IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 


the  adjacent  chasms  till  they  vanished  amid  the 
gray  rocks  of  some  distant  peak.  When  tired  of  the 
wild  "  Camailte's  darkling  mountains,"  he  descended 
to  the  glens,  where  his  fanciful  spirit  peopled  every 
gorge  and  grove  with  elfin  crowds. 

About  the  period  that  this  retiring,  timid  country 
lad  was  bordering  on  his  teens  the  Irish  Nation  was 
nearing  a  series  of  memorable  events  in  the  history 
of  her  people.  Three  D's — Davis,  Dillon  and  Duffy 
— representing  Mallow,  Mayo  and  Monaghan,  met 
about  this  time  in  Phoenix  Park,  Dublin,  and  estab- 
lished a  newspaper  that  was  destined  to  become  the 
exponent  of  Ireland's  national  hopes  and  aspirations. 

Davis  was  one  of  the  first  poetical  contributors  to 
the  columns  of  this  national  organ,  which  sent  forth 
its  initial  number  on  the  15th  of  October,  1842,  and 
startled  the  enemies  of  Irish  freedom. 

In  January,  1843,  D'Alton  Williams'  first  poem 
appeared  in  the  columns  of  that  journal  over  the  nom 
deplume  of  "  Shamrock."  Thenceforth  "  Shamrock  " 
was  a  welcome  name  in  the  office  of  the  Nation,  and 
an  assurance  to  the  editor  that  whatever  accompanied 
it  was  worthy  of  insertion.  Here  is  what  the  Nation 
had  to  say  of  "  Shamrock's  "  first  effort,  some  time 
after  Williams  had  been  "  borne,  an  exile  on  the 
deep,"  far  from  his  native  land: 

' '  Williams  was  not  among  the  founders  of  that  memorable 
school  of  national  poetry  which  sprang  up  in  '42  and  '43,  but 


KICHARD  D' ALTON  WILLIAMS.  3 

he  was  its  second  recruit.  Early  in  the  first  year  of  the  Nation 
a  poem  reached  us  from  Carlow  College  which  may  take  its 
place  in  literary  history  with  the  boyish  pastorals  of  Pope,  and 
the  boyish  ballads  of  Chatterton.  It  was  scrawled  in  the  angu- 
lar, uncertain  hand  of  a  student,  and  scarcely  invited  an  exam- 
ination. But  it  proved  to  be  a  ballad  of  surpassing  vigor,  full 
of  new  and  daring  imagery,  which  broke  out  like  a  tide  of  lava 
among  the  faded  flowers  and  tarnished  tinsel  of  minor  poetry. 
And  the  vigor  seems  to  be  held  in  check  by  a  firm  and  culti- 
vated judgment;  there  was  not  a  single  flight  which  Jeffrey 
would  have  called  extravagant,  or  a  metre  to  which  Pope  could 
object.  This  was  the  '  Munster  War  Song. '  It  was  Williams' 
first  poem  in  the  Nation.  A  couple  of  months  before ,  Davis  had 
written  his  first  poem,  'The  Lament  of  Owen  Roe.'  Memo- 
rable beginnings,  and  beginnings  of  more  than  a  new  race  of 
Irish  bards.  At  this  time,  Meagher  was  a  student  at  Stony- 
hurst,  O'Brien  a  Parliamentary  Liberal,  Mitchel  a  provincial 
attorney,  and  McGee  an  American  editor.  McNevin  had  never 
been  across  the  threshold  of  the  Nation  office,  either  in  person  or 
by  contribution;  nor  had  MacCarthy,  Mr.  Walsh,  nor  De  Jean; 
nor  had  any  two  of  these  young  men  ever  met.  But  a  new 
banner  had  been  set  up,  and  here  were  trumpet-notes  sufficient 
to  summon  a  host  about  it." 

The  title  of  this  martial  poem  is: 

THE  MUNSTER  WAR  SONG. 

Can  the  depths  of  the  ocean  afford  you  no  graves, 
That  you  come  thus  to  perish  afar  o'er  the  waves — 
To  redden  and  swell  the  wild  torrents  that  flow 
Through  the  valleys  of  vengeance,  the  dark  Aherlow? 


4  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

The  sunburst  that  slumbered,  embalmed  in  our  tears, 
Tipperary  !  shall  wave  o'er  thy  tall  mountaineers  ! 
And  the  dark  hill  shall  bristle  with  sabre  and  spear, 
While  one  tyrant  remains  to  forge  manacles  here. 

The  riderless  war-steed  careers  o'er  the  plain 
With  a  shaft  in  his  flank  and  a  blood-dripping  mane; 
His  gallant  breast  labors,  and  glare  his  wild  eyes! 
He  plunges  in  torture,  falls,  shivers  and  dies. 

Let  the  trumpets  ring  triumph !  the  tyrant  is  slain ! 
He  reels  o'er  his  charger,  deep-pierced  thro'  the  brain; 
And  his  myriads  are  flying  like  leaves  on  the  gale ; 
But  who  shall  escape  from  our  hills  with  the  tale  ? 

For  the  arrows  of  vengeance  are  showering  like  rain, 
And  choke  the  strong  rivers  with  islands  of  slain, 
Till  the  waves,  "  lordly  Shannon,"  all  crimsonly  flow, 
Like  the  billows  of  hell,  with  the  blood  of  the  foe. 

While  this  stirring  war  song  was  fresh  in  the 
minds  of  his  countrymen,  the  author  went  up  to 
Dublin,  and  began  his  career  as  a  medical  student 
in  St.  Vincent's  Hospital,  Stephen's  Green.  This 
institution,  under  the  care  of  the  good  Sisters  of 
Charity,  was  to  the  Irish  metropolis  at  that  time 
what  St.  Mary's  Hospital  is  at  present  to  our  own 
City  of  San  Francisco — the  best  managed  hospital  in 
all  the  land.  Here  young  Williams  gave  himself  up 
to  the  study  of  the  healing  art  under  Dr.  Bellingham, 
who  had  many  good  things  to  say  afterwards  of  his 
promising  pupil  when  summoned  to  testify  in  the 


RICHARD  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS.  5 

State  Trials  as  to  the  character  of  the  young  medico. 
It  was  during  his  incumbency  at  St.  Vincent's,  where 
he  saw  with  his  own  eyes  the  heroic  deeds  of  the 
Sisters,  that  he  penned  the  following  oft-quoted  lines 
on  the 

SISTER  OF  CHARITY. 

Sister  of  Charity,  gentle  and  dutiful, 

Loving  as  Seraphim,  tender  and  mild, 
In  humbleness  strong  and  in  purity  beautiful, 

In  spirit  heroic,  in  manners  a  child; 
Ever  thy  love,  like  an  angel,  reposes 

With  hovering  wings  o'er  the  sufferer  here, 
Till  the  arrows  of  death  are  half  hidden  in  roses, 

And  hope,  speaking  prophecy,  smiles  on  the  bier. 
When  life  like  a  vapor  is  slowly  retiring, 

As  clouds  in  the  dawning  to  heaven  uprolled, 
Thy  prayer,  like  a  herald,  precedes  him,  expiring, 

And  the  cross  on  thy  bosom  his  last  looks  behold. 
And,  oh  !  as  the  Spouse  to  thy  words  of  love  listens, 

What  hundredfold  blessings  descend  on  thee  then  ! 
Thus  the  flower-absorbed  dew  in  the  bright  iris  glistens, 

And  returns  to  the  lilies  more  richly  again. 

Sister  of  Charity  !  child  of  the  Holiest  ! 

Oh  !  for  thy  loving  soul,  ardent  as  pure  ! 
Mother  of  orphans  and  friend  of  the  lowliest ! 

Stay  of  the  wretched,  the  guilty,  the  poor  ! 
The  embrace  of  Godhead  so  plainly  enfolds  thee, 

Sanctity's  halo  so  shrines  thee  around, 
Daring  the  eye  that  unshrinking  beholds  thee, 

Nor  droops  in  thy  presence  abashed  to  the  ground. 


IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Dim  is  the  fire  of  the  sunniest  blushes, 

Burning  the  breast  of  the  maidenly  rose, 
To  the  exquisite  bloom  that  thy  pale  beauty  flushes 

When  the  incense  ascends  and  the  sanctuary  glows; 
And  the  music  that  seems  heaven's  language  is  pealing, 

Adoration  has  bowed  him  in  silence  and  sighs, 
And  man,  intermingled  with  angels,  is  feeling 

The  passionless  rapture  that  comes  from  the  skies. 
Oh  !  that  this  heart,  whose  unspeakable  treasure 

Of  love  hath  been  wasted  so  vainly  on  clay, 
Like  thine,  unallured  by  the  phantom  of  pleasure, 

Could  rend  eveiy  earthly  affection  away  ! 
And  yet,  in  thy  presence,  the  billows  subsiding, 

Obey  the  strong  effort  of  reason  and  will ; 
And  my  soul,  in  her  pristine  tranquility  gliding, 

Is  calm  as  when  God  bade  the  ocean  be  still ! 
Thy  soothing,  how  gentle  !  thy  pity,  how  tender  ! 

Choir-music  thy  voice  is,  thy  step  angel-grace, 
And  thy  union  with  Deity  shines  in  a  splendor — 

Subdued,  but  unearthly,  thy  spiritual  face. 
When  the  frail  chains  are  broken,  a  captive  that  bound  thee 

Afar  from  thy  home  in  the  prison  of  clay, 
Bride  of  the  Lamb  I  and  Earth's  shadow  around  thee 

Disperse  in  the  blaze  of  eternity's  day; 
Still  mindful,  as  now,  of  the  sufferer's  story 

Arresting  the  thunders  of  wrath  ere  they  roll, 
Intervene,  as  a  cloud,  between  us  and  His  glory, 

And  shield  from  his  lightnings  the  shuddering  soul; 
And  mild  as  the  moonbeams  in  autumn  descending, 

That  lightning,  extinguished  by  mercy,  shall  fall, 
While  He  hears,  with  the  wail  of  the  penitent  blending, 
Thy  prayer,  holy  daughter  of  Vincent  de  Paul. 


RICHARD   D  ALTON   WILLIAMS.  7 

In  the  early  part  of  1848  Kevin  Izod  O'Doherty 
and  D' Alton  Williams  founded  and  edited  the  Irish 
Tribune.  The  first  number  issued  forth  on  June  10th 
of  that  eventful  year.  Scarcely  six  weeks  had  elapsed 
when  the  Tribune's  career  was  brought  to  a  stop  by 
the  British  Government,  and  the  editors  were  locked 
up  under  the  pretense  that  they  had  intended  to 
levy  war  against  Her  Majesty,  Victoria,  through  the 
columns  of  a  newspaper.  The  young  bard  in  his 
new  character  of  traverser  was  defended  by  three 
men  who  have  since  become  famous  in  the  history  of 
their  country — Samuel  Ferguson,  Colman  O'Loghlen 
and  John  O'Hagan. 

To  the  charges  of  infidelity  preferred  against  the 
patriotic  poet,  Ferguson  answered  thus: 

"  He  is  not  an  infidel  With  a  chanty  becoming  his  Chris- 
tianity he  prays  that  God  may  forgive  his  enemies  that  abomi- 
nable slander.  Gentlemen,  I  am  not  a  member  of  that  ancient 
and  venerable  Church  within  whose  pale  my  client  seeks  for  sal- 
vation and  has  found  tranquility  and  contentment  in  affliction. 
But  I  would  be  unworthy  the  noble  and  generous  Protestant 
faith  which  I  profess,  if  I  could  withhold  my  admiration  from 
the  services  which  I  am  instructed  he  has  rendered  to  the  cause 
of  religion  and  of  charity,  not  only  by  his  personal  exertions  in 
distributing  the  beneficence  of  one  of  the  best  and  most  useful 
charitable  institutions  existing  in  our  city,  but  also  by  his  pen 
in  embodying  the  purest  aspirations  of  religion  in  sublime  and 
beautiful  poetry  When  I  speak  of  the  services  he  has  ren- 
dered religion  by  his  poetry,  allow  me  also  to  say  that  he  has 


8  IKISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

also  rendered  services  to  the  cause  of  patriotism  and  of  humanity 
by  it;  and  permit  me  to  use  the  privilege  of  a  long  apprentice- 
ship  in  those  pursuits  by  saying  that,  in  my  own  humble  judg- 
ment, after  our  own  poet  Moore,  the  first  living  poet  of  Ireland 
is  the  gentleman  who  now  stands  arraigned  at  the  bar." 

Such  is  the  high  estimate  put  on  the  budding 
genius  of  Richard  D'Altoii  Williams  by  one  who  was 
a  poet  himself  of  very  high  rank,  and  whose  name 
shines  to-day  among  the  foremost  literary  men  oi 
his  native  land. 

During  the  progress  of  his  trial  many  kind  things 
were  said  of  Mr.  Williams;  and  although  the  jury 
were  sent  back  twice  to  reconsider  their  decision  in 
this  case,  they  finally  returned  with  a  verdict  ol 
"  not  guilty."  The  poet  was  set  at  liberty,  despite 
the  efforts  of  the  Crown  to  convict  him. 

It  was  during  his  apprenticeship  in  the  hospital 
conducted  by  the  heroic  Sisters  of  Charity  that  he 
wrote  his  universally  admired  little  poem  on 

THE  DYING  GIRL. 

From  a  Munster  vale  they  brought  her 

From  the  pure  and  balmy  air, 
An  Ormond  peasant's  daughter, 

With  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 
They  brought  her  to  the  city, 

And  she  faded  slowly  there — 
Consumption  has  no  pity 

For  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 


RICHARD  D  ALTON   WILLIAMS. 

When  I  saw  her  first  reclining, 

Her  lips  were  moved  in  pray'r, 
And  the  setting  sun  was  shining 

On  her  loosened  golden  hair. 
When  our  kindly  glances  met  her 

Deadly  brilliant  was  her  eye 
And  she  said  that  she  was  better, 

While  we  knew  that  she  must  die. 

She  speaks  of  Munster  valleys, 

The  pattern,  dance  and  fair, 
And  her  thin  hand  feebly  dallies 

With  her  scattered  golden  hair. 
When  silently  we  listened 

To  her  breath  with  quiet  care, 
Her  eyes  with  wonder  glistened 

And  she  asked  us  what  was  there  ? 

The  poor  thing  smiled  to  ask  it, 

And  her  pretty  mouth  laid  bare, 
Like  gems  within  a  basket, 

A  string  of  pearlets  rare ; 
We  said  that  we  were  trying, 

By  the  gushing  of  her  blood, 
And  the  time  she  took  in  sighing, 

To  know  if  she  were  good. 

Well,  she  smiled  and  chatted  gaily; 

Though  we  saw  in  mute  despair 
The  hectic  biighten  daily 

And  the  death-dew  on  her  hair. 


10  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

And  oft,  her  wasted  fingers 

Beating  time  upon  the  bed, 
O'er  some  old  tune  she  lingers, 

And  she  bows  her  golden  head. 

At  length  the  harp  is  broken, 

And  the  spirit  in  its  strings, 
As  the  last  decree  is  spoken, 

To  its  source  exulting  springs. 
Descending  swiftly  from  the  skies 

Her  guardian  angel  came : 
He  struck  God's  lightning  from  her  eyes, 

And  bore  Him  back  the  flame. 

Before  the  sun  had  risen 

Through  the  lark -loved  morning  air, 
Her  young  soul  left  its  prison, 

Undefiled  by  sin  or  care. 
I  stood  beside  the  couch  in  tears, 

Where  pale  and  calm  she  slept, 
And  though  I've  gazed  on  death  for  years 

I  blush  not  that  I  wept. 
I  checked  with  effort  pity's  sighs, 

And  left  the  matron  there 
To  close  the  curtains  of  her  eyes 

And  bind  her  golden  hair. 

Though  gifted  like  Edgar  Allen  Poe,  Williams  had 
none  of  Poe's  weaknesses  or  failings.  He  was  sober, 
sedate,  benevolent  and  fervently  pious.  In  fact,  it 
has  been  said  of  him  that  "  he  was  much  more  ready 
to  visit  the  sick  and  dying  than  to  join  the  not 


RICHARD  D'AJLTON  WILLIAMS.  11 

unfrequent   symposia   of   his    literary  and   political 
friends." 

He  was  one  of  the  most  active  and  unselfish  mem- 
bers of  the  Society  of  St  Vincent  de  Paul.  The 
duties  assigned  to  him  in  connection  with  this 
Society  were  always  faithfully  and  carefully  per- 
formed. It  is  related  by  personal  acquaintances  that 
in  making  his  rounds  among  the  sick  and  needy  the 
young  physician  left  his  overcoat  behind  him  more 
than  once  to  cover  some  shivering  creature.  Refer- 
ence is  made  to  this  Society  in  the  following  letter 
written  to  the  late  Denis  Florence  MacCarthy  whose 
nom  de  plume  in  those  early  days  was  "  Desmond  "  • 

"  MY  DEAR  DESMOND:  I  send  you  the  standing  desk  and  hope 
that  you  may  make  countless  standing  jokes  and  Irish  ballads 
upon  it.  The  bearer  is  visited  by  our  Society  and  deals  in 
Punch  and  other  periodicals,  on  which  he  has  some  small  profit. 
He  supplies  me,  and  I  recommend  you  to  get  your  Punch  through 
his  hands.  If  you  are  here  this  evening  at  eight  o'clock,  you 
shall  have  a  cup  of  coffee  on  our  way  to  Westland  Row.  With 
best  respects  to  Mr.  MacCarthy  and  the  ladies,  I  am, 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"R.  D.  WILLIAMS. 

"MARCH  26,  1847." 

Though  acquitted  of  the  charge  preferred  against 
him  by  the  Government,  Williams  suffered  by  his 
imprisonment  in  Newgate.  But  he  suffered  in 
silence,  and  like  a  great  man,  never  whined. 


12  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

The  failure  of  the  'Forty-Eight  movement  depressed 
the  spirits  of  young  Williams  very  much,  and  left 
him  without  any  occupation  for  a  time.  After  a 
while,  however,  he  went  over  to  Scotland,  where  he 
stood  a  successful  examination  for  a  medical  diploma 
Returning  to  his  native  city,  he  practiced  his  pro- 
fession with  considerable  success.  But  the  failure 
of  all  his  schemes  for  nationhood  cast  a  gloom  over 
his  paths,  and  he  soon  resolved  to  try  his  fortune 
in  a  new  land. 

Early  in  the  summer  of  1851  he  bade  adieu  to  Erin, 
and  sailed  away,  never  to  return.  His  thoughts  on 
that  occasion  are  feelingly  expressed  in  that  pathetic 
little  poern: 

ADIEU,  TO  INNISFAIL. 

Adieu !  the  snowy  sail 
Swells  her  bosom  to  the  gale 
And  our  bark  from  Innisfail 

Bounds  away. 

While  we  gaze  upon  the  shore 
That  we  never  shall  see  more, 
And  the  blinding  tears  flow  o'er, 

We  pray: — 

Mavourneen,  be  thou  long 
In  peace  the  queen  of  song — 
In  battle  proud  and  strong 

As  the  sea. 


RICHARD  D' ALTON  WILLIAMS.  13 

Be  saints  thine  offspring  still, 
True  heroes  guard  each  hill, 
And  harps  by  every  rill 
Sound  free. 

Though  round  her  Indian  bowers 
The  hand  of  nature  showers 
The  brighest,  blooming  flowers 

Of  our  sphere; 
Yet  not  the  richest  rose 
In  an  alien  clime  that  blows 
Like  the  briar  at  home  that  grows 

Is  dear. 

Though  glowing  hearts  may  be 
In  soft  vales  beyond  the  sea, 
Yet  ever,  gramachree! 

ShaU  I  wail 

For  the  hearts  of  love  I  leave , 
In  the  dreaiy  hours  of  eve, 
On  thy  stormy  shores  to  grieve, 

Innisfail. 

But  mem'ry  o'er  the  deep 
On  her  dewy  wing  shall  sweep 
When  in  midnight  hours  I  weep 

O'er  thy  wrongs; 
And  bring  me  steeped  in  tears, 
The  dead  flowers  of  other  years, 
And  waft  unto  my  ears 

Home's  songs. 


14  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

When  I  slumber  in  the  gloom 
Of  a  nameless,  foreign  tomb, 
By  a  distant  ocean's  boom 

Innisf ail ! 

Around  thy  em'rald  shore 
May  the  clasping  sea  adore 
And  each  wave  in  thunder  roar, 

"All  hail!" 

And  when  the  final  sigh 
Shall  bear  my  soul  on  high, 
And  on  chainless  wings  I  fly 

Through  the  blue, 
Earth's  latest  thought  shall  be, 
As  I  soar  above  the  sea, 
"  Green  Erin,  dear,  to  thee 

Adieu!" 

The  exiled  bard  made  his  home  in  the  New  World, 
Nearer  to  the  tropic's  glow 

than  most  of  his  countrymen.  Poet-like,  he  sought 
the  sunny  South,  and  for  a  considerable  time  occupied 
the  chair  of  Belles-Lettres  in  Spring  Hill  College, 
Alabama.  With  his  old  friends,  the  Jesuits,  who 
conducted  this  institution  of  learning,  and  in  pur- 
suits so  congenial  to  his  tastes,  he  spent  a  few  happy 
years.  Marrying  Miss  Connolly,  an  estimable  and 
highly-educated  lady  of  New  Orleans,  about  1856, 
he  moved  to  Thibodeaux,  La.,  where  he  was  to  be 
found  at  the  outbreak  of  the  late  civil  war,  practicing 


BICHAKD  D' ALTON  WILLIAMS.  15 

medicine  and  writing  for  the  local  press.  Here 
it  was  that  death  overtook  him,  on  the  5th  day  of 
July,  1862,  amid  the  clash  of  resounding  arms.  His 
grave  in  the  Catholic  Cemetery  of  that  town  was 
still  red  when  two  companies  of  the  8th  Regiment, 
New  Hampshire  Volunteers,  came  to  camp  in  the 
vicinity.  This  regiment  was  chiefly  made  up  of 
Irish-Americans,  who,  on  hearing  of  the  death  of 
"  Shamrock,"  sought  his  final  resting  place  on  earth, 
and  resolved  to  perpetuate  his  memory  by  a  monu- 
ment befitting  one  so  gifted  and  so  good. 

The  Captain  of  Company  G,  having  collected 
among  the  soldiers  sufficient  money  for  this  purpose, 
obtained  leave  of  absence  for  a  few  days,  and  repair- 
ing to  New  Orleans,  there,  in  his  own  language,  he 

Purchased  a  stone  of  pure  Carrara  marble,  weighing  one  ton, 
with  a  pedestal  of  the  same  material.  This  was  the  best  thing 
of  the  kind  to  be  procured  in  the  city  at  that  time.  Yet, 
though  it  has  not  the  loftiness  and  grandeur  of  conception  of 
the  monument  which  should  rise  over  the  grave  of  an  Irish 
patriot,  it  is  elegant  and  chaste  in  design,  and  the  best  that 
war-worn  soldiers  could  have  done  who  were  hourly  expecting 
orders  to  move  further  into  the  State.  In  the  center  of  the 
slab  is  an  oak  leaf  enclosing  a  sprig  of  shamrock;  and  beneath 
is  the  following  inscription: 


16  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OP 

RICHARD  D' ALTON  WILLIAMS 

THE  IRISH  PATRIOT  AND  POET, 

Who  died  July  5th,  1862,  aged  40  years, 

This  stone  was  erected  by  his  countrymen  serving  in 

Companies  G  and  K,  N.  H.  Volunteers, 

As  a  slight  testimonial  of  their  esteem 

For  his  unsullied  Patriotism,  and  his  exalted  devotion 

To  the  cause  of  Irish  Freedom. 

Such  is  the  tribute  of  his  grateful  countrymen  to 
the  true  poet  and  "  unsullied  patriot."  It  was  a  fit- 
ting tribute  from  the  veteran  victors  of  many  a  hard- 
fought  field  to  the  memory  of  one  who  sang  such 
verses  as 

THE  PATRIOT  BRAVE. 

I  drink  to  the  valiant  who  combat 

For  freedom  by  mountain  or  wave; 
And  may  triumph  attend  like  a  shadow, 

The  sword  of  the  patriot  brave ! 
Oh !  never  was  holier  chalice 

Than  this  at  our  festivals  crowned, 
The  heroes  of  Morven,  to  pledge  it, 

And  gods  of  Valhalla  float  round. 
Hurrah  for  the  patriot  brave ! 

A  health  to  the  patriot  brave! 
And  a  curse  and  a  blow  be  to  liberty's  foe, 

Whether  tyrant  or  coward  or  knave. 


RICHARD  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS.  17 

Great  spirits,  who  battled  in  old  time 

For  the  freedom  of  Athens,  descend! 
As  low  to  the  shadow  of  Brian 

In  fond  hero-worship  we  bend. 
From  those  that  in  far  Alpine  passes 

Saw  Dathi  struck  down  in  his  mail, 
To  the  last  of  our  chief's  gallow-glasses, 

The  saffron-clad  foes  of  the  Pale. 
Let  us  drink  to  the  patriot  brave ! 

Hurrah  for  the  patriot  brave! 
But  a  curse  and  a  blow  be  to  liberty's  foe, 

And  more  chains  for  the  satisfied  slave. 

O  Liberty !  hearts  that  adore  thee 

Pour  out  their  best  blood  at  thy  shrine, 
As  freely  as  gushes  before  thee 

This  purple  libation  of  wine. 
For  us,  whether  destined  to  triumph 

Or  bleed  as  Leonidas  bled, 
Crushed  down  by  a  forest  of  lances 

On  mountains  of  foreigner  dead, 
May  we  sleep  with  the  patriot  brave ! 

God  prosper  the  patriot  brave ! 
But  may  battle  and  woe  hurry  liberty's  foe 

To  a  bloody  and  honorless  grave. 

Having  performed  their  work  at  the  grave  of 
"  Shamrock,"  the  Federal  troops  moved  away  to 
other  quarters;  but  the  graceful  act  of  the  Irish- 
American  Volunteers  still  remains  to  point  the  hal- 

3 


18  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

lowed  spot  where  all  that  is  mortal  of  the  bard  min- 
gles with  the  mold  of  his  adopted  land. 

So  much  devotion  to  the  memory  of  one  who  had 
labored  for  the  cause  of  Irish  freedom  naturally 
elicited  the  admiration  of  many.  The  life-long  friend 
of  Williams,  Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee,  from  his  home 
in  the  Dominion  of  Canada,  enshrined  the  touching 
incident  in  a  poem  of  great  power  and  beauty.  It 
runs  thus: 

God  bless  the  brave!  the  brave  alone 

Were  worthy  to  have  done  the  deed; 
A  soldier's  hand  has  raised  the  stone, 
Another  traced  the  lines  men  read, 
Another  set  the  guardian  rail 
Above  thy  minstrel — Innisfail ! 

A  thousand  years  ago,  ah!  then 

Had  such  a  harp  in  Erin  ceased, 
His  cairn  had  met  the  eyes  of  men 
By  every  passing  hand  increased. 

God  bless  the  brave !  not  yet  the  race 
Could  coldly  pass  his  dwelling  place. 

Let  it  be  told  to  old  and  young, 

At  home,  abroad,  at  fire,  at  fair, 
Let  it  be  written,  spoken,  sung, 
Let  it  be  sculptured,  pictured  fair, 

How  the  young  braves  stood,  weeping,  round 
Their  exiled  poet's  ransomed  mound. 


KICHARD   D' ALTON   WILLIAMS.  19 

How  lowly  knelt  and  humbly  prayed 

The  lion-hearted  brother  band 
Around  the  monument  they  made 
For  him  who  sang  the  Fatherland ! 

A  scene  of  scenes,  where  glory  's  shed 
Both  on  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Williams  was  not  only  a  poet  of  rare  gifts,  but  also 
a  scholar  of  varied  acquirements.  In  Carlow  Col- 
lege he  won  a  reputation  for  learning,  and  was 
excelled  by  few  in  his  knowledge  of  the  classic 
tongues.  He  read  in  the  originals  the  Greek  and 
Latin  poets  while  yet  a  mere  youth,  and  those 
models  left  by  the  ancients  were  not  neglected  in  his 
maturer  years.  Good  books  were  always  his  delight. 

Though  sensitive  and  retiring  in  his  nature,  he 
made  and  held  hosts  of  friends  wherever  he  went. 
In  college,  where  manly  virtues  unfailingly  win  the 
admiration  of  the  students,  he  was  a  popular  favorite 
with  professors  and  pupils  alike ;  and  the  affectionate 
admiration  which  the  many  noble  traits  of  his  char- 
acter evoked  followed  him  through  every  change  of 
life  to  his  Louisiana  grave,  where  he  awaits  that 
awful  scene  so  vividly  described  in  his  translation  of 

the 

DIES  IRAE. 

Wo  is  the  day  of  ire, 
Shrouding  the  earth  in  fire; 
Sybil's  and  David's  lyre 
Dimly  foretold  it. 


20  IBISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Strictly  the  guilty  land, 
By  the  avenger  scanned, 
Smitten,  aghast  shall  stand 
Still,  to  behold  it. 

Start  from  your  trance  profound 
Through  the  rent  graves  around, 
Hark !  the  last  trumpet's  sound 

Dolorous  clangor. 
Death  sees  in  mute  surprise 
Ashes  to  doom  arise 
Dust  unto  God  replies — 

God  in  his  anger. 

Bring  forth  the  judgment  roll — 
Blazon  aloud  the  whole 
Guilt  of  each  trembling  soul — 

Justice  hath  bidden. 
Then  shall  all  hearts  be  known, 
Sin's  abyss  open  thrown, 
Vengeance  shall  have  her  own, 

Naught  shall  be  hidden. 

Oh,  on  that  dreadful  day 
What  shall  the  sinner  say 
When  scarce  the  just  shall  stay 

Judgment  securely  ? 
Save  me,  tremendous  King ! 
Who  the  saved  soul  dost  bring 
Under  Thy  mercy's  wing, 

Through  thy  grace  purely. 


BICHABD  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS.  21 

Jesus,  remember  1 

Caused  Thee  to  toil  and  die — 

Sin  brought  Thee  from  the  sky— 

I  am  a  sinner. 

Break  my  soul's  bitter  chain — 
Thou  for  her  love  wert  slain — 
Gushed  Thy  heart's  blood  in  vain, 

Saviour  !  to  win  her ! 

Just  Judge  and  strong,  we  pray, 
Ere  the  accusing  day, 
From  every  stain  of  clay, 

Grant  us  remission. 
Guilty  and  sore  in  fear, 
I,  clad  in  shame,  appear — 
Yet — for  Thy  mercy  hear, 

Lord,  my  petition: 

Who  madest  Mary  pure 
And  the  good  thief  secure 
Gavest  me  also  sure 

Hope  of  Salvation; 
Though  to  my  shrinking  gaze 
Hell's  everlasting  blaze 
Glare  through  the  judgment  day's 

Dire  desolation. 

Lamb,  for  the  ransom  slain! 
Then,  mid  Thy  snowy  train, 
At  Thy  right  hand  to  reign, 
Place  me  forever: 


22  IRISH  POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

While,  at  Thy  dread  command, 
Those  at  Thy  left  who  stand, 
Far  from  the  chosen  band, 

Lightnings  shall  sever. 

Rings  the  last  thunder  shock — 
Earth's  broken  pillars  rock — 
Down  the  accursed  flock 

Numberless  falling- 
Down  to  the  fiery  doom, 
Gulfed  in  hell's  hopeless  tomb, 
Shriek  through  the  ghastly  gloom, 

Horrors  appalling. 

Contrite,  in  pale  dismay, 
Lord!  hear  a  sinner  pray, 
On  that  tremendous  day 

Spread  Thy  shield  o'er  him; 
Day  of  great  anguish,  when 
God,  from  the  dust  again, 
Summons  us,  guilty  men, 

Wailing  before  Him. 

Clement  Thou  art,  as  just, 
Mercy,  O  God,  on  dust — 
In  Thee  alone  we  trust, 

Shelter  and  save  us  ! 
When,  on  the  day  of  dole, 
Death-bells  of  nations  toll, 
Spare  the  immortal  soul 

Thy  spirit  gave  us. 

Williams  was  a  man  of  more  than  medium  height, 
with  well-knit  frame  and  face  strongly  marked  with 


BICHABD  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS.  23 

the  lines  of  thought.  In  youth  he  possessed  a  keen 
sense  of  humor  and  a  disposition  to  look  always  on 
the  "  silver  lining  of  the  cloud." 

In  head,  heart  and  soul  he  was  Irish,  and  his  chief 
aim  in  life  was  to  serve  his  native  land.  His  earlier 
poems  were  written  with  that  end  in  view,  and  not 
for  fame.  Having  a  great  deal  of  serious  business  on 
hand,  he  always  wrote  in  a  hurry  when  the  mood 
took  him,  and  seldom  waited  to  re-read  or  revise  his 
copy.  He  did  not,  like  Pope  and  Edmund  Burke, 
write  his  compositions  over  and  over  several  times, 
but  left  them  as  they  came  gushing  from  the  heart, 
without  a  single  touch  of  the  linae  labor. 

After  the  failure  of  the  Young  Irelanders  his  mind 
and  disposition  changed  from  gay  to  grave.  The 
happy,  humorous  young  rebel  to  British  injustice  in 
Ireland  ever  after  seemed  to  mourn  his  blighted 
hopes.  He  did  not  thrive  in  exile. 

His  last  literary  work  was  the  "  Song  of  the  Irish- 
American  Regiments,"  in  which  his  old  patriotic  fer- 
vor seems  to  burn  anew.  Two  months  later  and  the 
hand  that  wrote  this  was  stilled  in  death. 

Sleep  well,  O  Bard!  too  early  from  the  field 

Of  labor  and  of  honor  call'd  away; 
Sleep  like  a  hero,  on  your  own  good  shield, 

Beneath  the  Shamrock  wreath'd  about  with  bay; 
Not  doubtful  is  thy  place  among  the  host, 

Whom  fame  and  Erin  love  and  mourn  the  most. 


24  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

KATHLEEN. 

My  Kathleen,  dearest!  in  truth  or  seeming 

No  brighter  vision  e'er  blessed  mine  eyes 
Than  she  for  whom,  in  Elysian  dreaming, 

Thy  tranced  lover  too  fondly  sighs. 
Oh,  Kathleen,  fairest!  if  elfin  splendor 

Hath  ever  broken  my  heart's  repose, 
'Twas  in  the  darkness,  ere  purely  tender, 

Thy  smile,  like  moonlight  o'er  ocean,  rose. 

Since  first  I  met  thee  thou  knowest  thine  are 
This  passion-music,  and  each  pulse's  thrill — 

The  flowers  seem  brighter,  the  stars  diviner, 
And  God  and  Nature  more  glorious  still. 

I  see  around  me  new  fountains  gushing — 
More  jewels  spangle  the  robes  of  night ; 

Strange  harps  resounding — fresh  roses  blushing- 
Young  worlds  emerging  in  purer  light. 

No  more  thy  song-bird  in  clouds  shall  hover — 

Oh,  give  him  shelter  upon  thy  breast, 
And  bid  him  swiftly,  his  long  flight  over, 

From  heav'n  drop  into  that  love-built  nest! 
Like  fairy  flow'rets  is  Love,  thou  fearest, 

At  once  that  springeth  like  mine  from  earth — 
'Tis  Friendship's  ivy  grows  slowly,  dearest, 

But  Love  and  Lightning  have  instant  birth. 

The  mirthful  fancy  and  artless  gesture — 
Hair  black  as  tempest,  and  swan-like  breast, 

More  graceful  folded  in  simple  vesture 
Than  proudest  bosoms  in  diamonds  drest. 


RICHARD  D' ALTON  WILLIAMS.  25 

Nor  these,  the  varied  and  rare  possession 

Love  gave  to  conquer,  are  thine  alone; 
But,  oh!  there  crowns  thee  divine  expression, 

As  saints  a  halo,  that's  all  thine  own. 

Thou  art,  as  poets  in  olden  story 

Have  pictured  woman  before  the  fall — 
Her  angel  beauty's  divinest  glory — 

The  pure  soul  shining,  like  God,  through  all. 
But,  vainly,  humblest  of  leaflets  springing, 

I  sing  the  queenliest  flower  of  Love: 
Thus  soars  the  skylark,  presumptuous  singing 

The  orient  morning  enthroned  above. 

Yet  hear,  propitious,  beloved  maiden, 

The  minstrel's  passion  is  pure  as  strong, 
Though,  nature  fated,  his  heart,  love-laden 

Must  break,  or  utter  its  woes  in  song. 
Farewell !    If  never  my  soul  may  cherish 

The  dreams  that  bade  me  to  love  aspire, 
By  mem'ry's  altar  !   thou  shalt  not  perish, 

First  Irish  pearl  of  my  Irish  lyre  ! 

THE  PASS  OF  PLUMES. 

[To  the  pompons  preparations  of  the  Earl  of  Essex,  the  results  of  his  gov- 
ernment in  Ireland  formed  a  most  lamentable  sequel.  Barely,  if  ever,  indeed, 
had  there  been  witnessed,  in  any  military  expedition,  a  more  wretched  con- 
trast between  the  promises  and  performances  of  its  leader,  or  a  wider 
departure  in  the  field  from  the  plans  settled  in  the  Council.  Provided  with 
an  army  the  largest  that  Ireland  had  ever  witnessed  on  her  shores,  consisting 
of  20,000  foot  and  2,000  horse,  his  obvious  policy,  and  at  first  his  purpose, 
was  to  march  directly  against  Tyrone,  and  grapple  at  once  with  the  strength 
of  the  Rebellion  in  its  great  source  and  centre,  the  North.  Instead  of  pursu- 
ing this  course  of  policy,  at  once  the  boldest  and  most  safe,  he  squandered 
both  time  and  reputation  on  a  march  of  parade  into  Munster,  and  the  sole 
result  of  his  mighty  enterprise  was  the  reduction  of  two  castles  and  the  feigned 


26  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

submission  of  three  native  Chiefs.  When  passing  through  Leinster,  on  his 
way  back  to  Dublin,  he  was  much  harassed  by  the  O'Moores,  who  made  an 
attack  upon  his  rear-guard,  in  which  many  of  his  men  and  several  of  his 
officers  were  killed;  and,  among  the  few  traditional  records  we  have  of  his 
visit,  it  is  told  that,  from  the  quantity  of  plumes  of  feathers  of  which  his 
soldiers  were  despoiled,  the  place  of  action  long  continued  to  be  called  the 
Pass  of  Plumes, — "  Thus,"  says  Moryson,  in  describing  the  departure  of 
Essex  from  London,  ' '  at  the  head  of  so  strong  an  army  as  did  ominate  nothing 
but  victory  and  triumphs,  yet  with  a  sunshine  thunder  happening  (as  Cam- 
den  notes  for  an  ominous  ill  token)  this  lord  took  his  journey." — Moore's  Ire- 
land, vol.  iv.,  p.  112.] 

"  Look  out,"  said  O'Moore  to  his  clansmen,  "afar 

Is  yon  white  cloud,  the  herald  of  tempest  or  war! 

Hark!  know  you  the  roll  of  the  foreigners'  drums? 

By  Heaven!  Lord  Essex  in  panoply  comes, 

With  corselet,  and  helmet,  and  gay  bannerol, 

And  the  shields  of  the  nobles  with  blazon  and  scroll; 

And,  as  snow  on  the  larch  in  December  appears, 

What  a  winter  of  plumes  on  that  forest  of  spears! 

To  the  clangor  of  trumpets  and  waving  of  flags, 

The  clattering  cavalry  prance  o'er  the  crags; 

And  their  plumes — By  St.  Kyran!  false  Saxon,  ere  night, 

You  shall  wish  these  fine  feathers  were  wings  for  your  flight. 

"  Shall  we  leave  all  the  blood  and  the  gold  of  the  Pale 

To  be  shed  at  Armagh  and  won  by  O'Neill  ? 

Shall  we  yield  to  O'Ruark,  to  McGuire  and  O'Donnell, 

Brave  chieftains  of  Breffny,  Fermanagh — Tyrconnell; 

Yon  helmets,  that  '  Erick'  thrice  over  would  pay 

For  the  Sassenach  heads  they'll  protect  not  to-day  ? 

No!     By  red  Mullaghmast,  fiery  clansmen  of  Leix, 

Avenge  your  sires'  blood  on  their  murderers'  race ! 

Now,  sept  of  O'Moore,  fearless  sons  of  the  heather, 

Fling  your  scabbards  away,  and  strike  home  and  together! " 


RICHARD  D' ALTON  WILLIAMS.  27 

Then  loudly  the  clang  of  commingled  blows 

Upswell'd  from  the  sounding  fields, 
And  the  joy  of  a  hundred  trumps  arose, 

And  the  clash  of  a  thousand  shields. 
And  the  long  plumes  danc'd  and  the  falchions  rung, 

And  flash'd  the  whirl'd  spear, 
And  the  furious  barb  through  the  wild  war  sprung, 

And  trembled  the  earth  with  fear; 
The  fatal  bolts  exulting  fled, 

And  hissed  as  they  leap'd  away; 
And  the  tortur'd  steed  on  the  red  grass  bled, 

Or  died  with  a  piercing  neigh. 

I  see  their  weapons  crimson'd;  I  hear  the  mingled  cries 

Of  rage  and  pain  and  triumph,  as  they  thundered  to  the  skies. 

The  Coolun'd  kern  rushes  upon  armor,  knight  and  mace, 

And  bone  and  brass  are  broken  in  his  terrible  embrace ! 

The  coursers  roll  and  struggle;  and  the  riders,  girt  in  steel, 

From  their  saddles,  crush'd  and  cloven,  to  the  purple  heather 

reel, 

And  shatter'd  there,  and  trampled  by  the  charger's  iron  hoof, 
The  seething  brain  is  bursting  thro'  the  crashing  helmet's  roof. 
Joy!    Heaven  strikes  for  freedom!  and  Elizabeth's  array, 
With  her  paramour  to  lead  'em,  are  sore  beset  to-day. 

Their  heraldry  and  plumery,  their  coronets  and  mail, 
Are  trampled  on  the  battle  field,  or  scatter'd  on  the  gale! 
As  the  cavalry  of  ocean,  the  living  billows  bound, 
When  lightnings  leap  above  them  and  thunders  clang  around, 
And  tempest-crested  dazzlingly,  caparison'd  in  spray, 
They  crush  the  black  and  broken  rocks,  with  all  their  roots 
away 


28  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

So  charged  the  stormy  chivalry  of  Erin  in  her  ire — 
Their  shock  the  roll  of  ocean,  their  swords  electric  fire. 
They  rose  like  banded  billows  that,  when  wintry  tempests  blow, 
The  trembling  shore,  with  stunning  roar  and  dreadful  wreck 

o'erflow, 

And  where  they  burst  tremendously,  upon  the  bloody  groun', 
Both  horse  and  man,  from  rear  to  van,  like  shiver'd  barqueh 

went  down. 

Leave  your  costly  Milan  hauberks,  haughty  nobles  of  the  Pale, 
And  your  snowy  ostrich  feathers  as  a  tribute  to  the  Gael. 
Fling  away  gilt  spur  and  trinket,  in  your  hurry,  knight  and 

squire, 

They  will  make  our  virgins  ornaments  or  decorate  the  lyre. 
Ho,  Essex!  how  your  vestal  Queen  will  storm  when  she  hears 
The  "  mere  Irish"  chased  her  minion  and  his  twenty  thousand 

spears. 

Go!  tell  the  Royal  virgin  that  O'Moore,  McHugh,  O'Neill 
Will  smite  the  faithless  stranger  while  there 's  steel  in  Innisfail. 
The  blood  you  shed  shall  only  serve  more  deep  revenge  to  nurse, 
And  our  hatred  be  as  lasting  as  the  tyranny  we  curse. 
From  age  to  age  consuming,  it  shall  blaze  a  quenchless  lire, 
And  the  son  shall  thirst  and  burn  still  more  fiercely  than  his 

sire. 
By  our  sorrows,  songs  and  battles — by  our  cromleachs,  raths 

and  tow'rs— 
By  sword  and  chain,  by  all  our  slain — between  your  race  and 

ours 
By  naked  glaives  and  yawning  graves,  and  ceaseless  tears  and 

gore, 
Till  battle's  flood  wash  out  in  blood  your  footsteps  from  the 

shore! 


KICHARD  D'ALTON  WILLIAMS.  29 

THE  EXTERMINATION. 

Dominus  pupillum  et  viduam  susdpiet. — Pa.  145. 

When  tyranny's  pampered  and  purple-clad  minions 
Drive  forth  the  lone  widow  and  orphan  to  die, 

Shall  no  angel  of  vengeance  unfurl  his  red  pinions , 
And,  grasping  sharp  thunderbolts,  rush  from  on  high? 

"Pity!  oh,  pity!  a  little  while  spare  me: 

My  baby  is  sick— I  am  feeble  and  poor; 
In  the  cold  winter  blast,  from  the  hut  if  you  tear  me, 

My  lord,  we  must  die  on  the  desolate  moor!" 

Tis  vain — for  the  despot  replies  but  with  laughter, 

While  rudely  his  serfs  thrust  her  forth  on  the  wold; 
Her  cabin  is  blazing  from  threshold  to  rafter, 

And  she  crawls  o'er  the  mountain,  sick,  weeping  and  cold. 
Her  thinly-clad  child  on  the  stormy  hill  shivers — 

The  thunders  are  pealing  dread  anthems  around — 
Loud  roar  in  their  anger  the  tempest-lashed  rivers — 

And  the  loosened  rocks  down  with  the  wild  torrent  bound. 

Vainly  she  tries  in  her  bosom  to  cherish 

Her  sick  infant  boy,  'mid  the  horrors  around, 
Till  faint  and  despairing,  she  sees  her  babe  perish — 

Then,  lifeless  she  sinks  on  the  snow-covered  ground. 
Though  the  children  of  Ammon,  with  trumpets  and  psalters, 

To  devils  poured  torrents  of  innocents'  gore, 
Let  them  blush  from  deep  hell  at  the  far  redder  altars 

Where  the  death-dealing  tyrants  of  Ireland  adore ! 
But,  for  Erin's  life-current,  thro'  long  ages  flowing, 

Dark  demons  that  pierce  her,  you  yet  shall  atone; 
Even  now  the  volcano  beneath  you  is  glowing, 

And  the  Moloch  of  tyranny  reels  on  the  throne. 


*^>\ 

ESI  T  71 


"  The  trumpet  blast  has  sounded 

Our  footmen  to  array, 
The  willing  steed  has  bounded 

Impatient  for  the  fray." — P.  46. 


BARTHOLOMEW   DOWLING 


AUTHOR  OF  "THE  BRIGADE  AT  FOXTENOY." 


|HE  subjoined  article  on  Mr.  Dowling  was 
written,  at  our  request,  by  a  gentleman  who 
for  more  than  twenty  years  enjoyed  the  personal 
friendship  of  the  deceased  poet: 

:  "  The  author  of  that  beautiful  ballad,  <  The  Brigade  at  Fon- 
tenoy,'  was  a  native  of  Lis towel,  County  Kerry,  Ireland.  While 
Bartholomew  Dowling  was  yet  a  boy,  his  parents  emigrated  to 
Canada,  where  they  remained  for  some  years,  and  where  the 
future  poet  and  patriot  received  a  part  of  his  education.  Re- 
turning to  Ireland,  after  the  death  of  the  father,  the  family 
settled  in  Limerick.  This  circumstance  has  given,  unjustly,  to 
the  '  City  of  the  Violated  Treaty '  the  honor  of  Mr.  Bowling's 
birth.  His  parents  were,  however,  from  the  Kingdom  of 
Kerry,  and  there  he  himself  was  born  about  the  year  1823,  as 
near  as  I  can  judge. 

"  In  a  review  of  a  recent  publication,  '  A  Chaplet  of  Verse 
by  California  Catholic  Writers/  the  Boston  Pilot  desired  to  get 
information  regarding  the  subject  of  this  sketch.  My  attention 
has  also  been  called  to  a  similar  inquiry  in  the  Irish  Monthly, 
published  in  Dublin  by  Rev.  Mathew  Russell,  who  takes  an 
active  interest  in  everything  that  concerns  the  literature  of  his 
native  land.  In  his  brief  mention  the  reverend  editor  gives 
Mr.  Dowling  a  very  high  rank  in  the  brilliant  galaxy  of  gifted 
young  Irishmen  who  threw  themselves  and  their  fortunes,  heart 

(31) 


32  IPJSH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

and  soul,  into  the  movement  inaugurated  by  the  Dublin  Nation, 
and  which  culminated  in  the  disaster  of  1848,  scattering  their 
hopes  and  making  voluntary  exiles  of  those  who  escaped  penal 
servitude  at  the  hands  of  the  Government  they  had  labored  to 
overthrow. 

"  The  writer  of  this  brief  biography  was  then  a  boy,  and 
can  now  go  back  in  vivid  memory  to  the  monster  meetings  of 
the  Repeal  Association,  and  again  almost  feel  with  what  eager- 
ness he  looked  forward  to  the  weekly  issue  of  the  Dublin  Nation 
and  the  alacrity  with  which  he  read  its  lessons  of  Nationality 
in  prose  and  verse.  Standing  to-day  on  this  peaceful  shore,  far 
from  the  scenes  of  so  many  ardent  aspirations  and  unrealized 
hopes,  after  the  flight  of  many  years — years  that  have  changed 
the  sand  dunes  of  San  Francisco  into  a  beautiful  city  of  won- 
derful resources  and  glorious  energy — as  I  turn  over  the  pages 
of  Ireland's  ballad  poetry,  it  is  with  the  feelings  of  one  who 
wanders  through  a  cemetery,  reading  the  names  of  dead  friends. 

' '  Through  the  kind  courtesy  of  one  who  is  himself  a  gifted 
poet  as  well  as  a  practical  patriot,  I  am  afforded  this  opportunity 
of  supplying  the  information  asked  for  by  Father  Russell  and 
the  distinguished  editor  of  the  Pilot,  and  doing  my  part  towards 
resuscitating  the  memory  of  a  good  and  gifted  man  who  was 
very  dear  to  me. 

' '  The  writer  of  whom  I  treat  here  had  the  cares  and  respon- 
sibilities of  life  shifted  on  to  his  shoulders,  while  yet  a  mere 
youth,  by  the  death  of  his  father;  and  well  did  he  sustain  the 
burden,  cheering  and  comforting  his  mother  to  the  day  of  her 
death,  and  aiding  his  younger  brothers  and  a  sister  till  time 
fitted  them  for  the  battle  of  life.  The  lives  of  the  good  are 
generally  devoid  of  sensation,  and  he  enjoyed  an  average  share 
of  such  blessings. 


BARTHOLOMEW   BOWLING.  33 

* '  He  did  not  follow  literature  as  a  profession.  The  best 
years  of  his  life  were  devoted  to  mercantile  pursuits,  and  his 
contributions  to  current  literature,  in  prose  or  verse,  were  mostly 
published  anonymously,  without  any  effort  at  preservation;  and 
such  as  are  at  our  disposal  have  been  gathered  from  many 
sources  with  considerable  labor. 

"  He  came  to  California  in  the  summer  of  1852,  and,  for  a 
time ,  engaged  in  mining  in  the  northern  counties.  Not  finding 
this  work  congenial,  he  took  to  farming  in  Contra  Costa,  where 
he  built  himself  a  home  and  shared  the  hospitality  of  his  board 
with  John  Mitchel,  General  James  Shields  and  Terence  Belle w 
McManus,  while  they  were  sojourning  on  the  '  Golden  Slopes/ 

"  In  1858  he  became  editor  of  the  San  Francisco  Monitor,  at 
a  time  when  his  health  was  broken  down;  but  yet  his  writings 
displayed  a  vigor  and  versatility  that  gave  evidence  of  what  he 
was  capable  of  accomplishing  under  more  favorable  circum- 
stances. In  this  position  his  gentlemanly  and  courteous  style 
left  no  cause  of  quarrel  with  those  with  whom  he  was  compelled 
to  differ. 

"  Mr.  Bowling's  death  was  immediately  caused  by  being 
thrown  from  a  buggy  and  having  his  leg  broken.  His  health 
previous  to  this  shock  being  declining,  he  had  no  physical 
strength  to  bear  him  up,  and  his  spirit  passed  from  earth  to 
judgment  under  the  kind  and  holy  care  of  the  good  Sisters  of 
Mercy,  at  St.  Mary's  Hospital,  where  he  was  happily  removed 
for  surgical  treatment. 

' '  This  splendid  institution  was  founded  by  the  Sisters  of 
Mercy,  and  at  the  time  of  Mr.  Bowling's  death,  Rev.  Mother 
Russell,  sister  to  Father  Russell  of  the  Irish  Monthly,  referred 
to  above,  presided  over  its  destiny.  I  understand  that  the 
same  noble  lady  is  still  Superioress  of  this  hospital,  which  has 


34  IRISH  POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

been  a  blessing  to  San  Francisco  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century. 

"Fortified  by  the  Sacraments  of  the  Church,  of  which  he 
had  always  been  a  devoted  and  faithful  member,  Bartholomew 
Bowling  died  in  St.  Mary's  on  the  20th  day  of  November,  1863, 
in  the  fortieth  year  of  his  age.  The  Irish- American  societies  of 
San  Francisco  accompanied  his  mortal  remains  to  their  final 
resting  place  in  Calvary  cemetery,  where  a  handsome  monument, 
erected  by  his  brother,  Mr.  William  Dowling,  marks  his  grave 
and  perpetuates  his  name. " 

Such  is  the  short  story  of  the  author's  life  from  one 
who  knew  him  intimately  and  loved  him  sincerely. 
Mr.  Dowling  was  a  poet  of  rare  gifts  and  liberal 
education.  Versed  in  one  of  the  ancient  and  several 
of  the  modern  languages,  the  classic  writers  were  the 
masters  of  his  youth  and  the  constant  companions  of 
his  matured  years. 

Wherever  he  wandered,  whether 
In  chapel,  church  or  meeting, 
On  prairie,  field  or  strand, 
At  home  among  the  hills  and  streams, 
Or  in  a  foreign  land, 

He  carried  along  with  him  a  little  volume  of  Beran- 
ger's  poems,  the  gift  of  his  friend  and  compatriot, 
John  Mitchel.  From  this  he  made  many  beautiful 
translations  during  his  connection  with  the  Monitor. 
At  his  death  this  souvenir  of  the  indomitable  Mitchel 
became  the  property  of  a  talented  and  accomplished 
young  lady  of  San  Francisco,  who,  judging  from  her 


BAKTHOLOMEW  BOWLING,  35 

many  published  translations,  knows  well  how  to  use 
and  appreciate  it.  To  her  we  are  indebted  for  "  A 
Memory  of  Seville,"  which  is  here  published  for  the 
first  time  from  a  manuscript  in  the  handwriting  of 
the  author. 

Though  of  a  retiring  disposition  and  sensitive 
nature,  the  talents  of  Mr.  Dowling  were  recognized 
and  appreciated. 

Some  prominent  business  men  of  San  Francisco 
induced  him  to  quit  the  seclusion  of  Crucita  Valley, 
Contra  Costa  County,  and  take  his  place  in  the  heart 
of  the  young  metropolis,  among  men  of  brilliant 
parts.  Mr.  P.  J.  Thomas,  the  enterprising  publisher 
and  patron  of  every  good  work,  then  a  young  man  in 
full  sympathy  with  the  doctrine  of  the  Young  Ireland 
leaders,  would  not  suffer  Mr.  Dowling  to  live  in  the 
peaceful  shade  of  his  own  vine.  Mr.  Thomas  was 
one  of  the  founders  of  the  San  Francisco  Monitor,  in 
March,  1858,  and,  shortly  after,  at  the  earnest  solici- 
tation of  himself  and  his  partners,  Mr.  Dowling 
assumed  the  editorial  management  of  the  paper. 
Many  leading  articles  and  poems  written  by  him  at 
this  time  show  the  grasp  and  fertility  of  his  intellect. 

His  stories,  essays  and  poems,  if  collected,  would 
make  a  portly  volume,  though,  as  we  are  told  in  this 
article  by  his  biographer,  "  he  did  not  make  litera- 
ture a  profession,"  except  in  the  too  brief  period  of 


36  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

his  connection  with  the  pioneer  Catholic  paper  of  the 
Pacific  Coast. 

During  his  labors  in  the  mines  of  California  Mr. 
Dowling  wrote  many  interesting  sketches  and  beau- 
tiful poems,  which  may  be  found  in  the  California 
Pioneer,  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Hard  Knocks." 
In  a  lengthy  poem  entitled  "  Eeminiscences  of  the 
Mines/'  he  depicts  life  in  the  mining  camp  more 
faithfully  than  and  quite  as  graphically  as  Bret  Harte. 
It  was  published  in  the  Pioneer  magazine  for  Novem- 
ber, 1855,  and  thence  we  refer  the  old  prospector  who 
packed  his  pick  and  pan  in  the  "  days  of  gold." 
Sometimes  he  wrote  under  the  pen-name  of  Southern; 
at  other  times  over  the  initial  letter  of  his  surname; 
but  his  favorite  signature  was  Masque.  In  "  Hayes' 
Ballad  Poetry  of  Ireland,"  two  of  Mr.  Dowling's 
productions  are  printed  anonymously,  and  only  one 
bears  his  name. 

We  have  succeeded  in  collecting,  from  different 
sources,  forty  of  his  best  songs  and  ballads,  of  a  very 
high  order,  deserving,  indeed,  a  better  fate  than  that 
to  which  they  have  been  consigned  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century. 

The  following  introductory  remarks  to  his  trans- 
lation of  Korner's  "  Prayer  Before  Battle,"  we  give 
as  a  specimen  of  Mr.  Dowling's  prose  writing.  This 
short  preamble  bristles  with  imaginative  power,  and 


BARTHOLOMEW   DOWLING.  37 

demonstrates  how  fully  his  soul  sympathized  with 
the  subject  which  evoked  his  innate  love  of  liberty: 

THEODORE  KORNER. 

' '  At  the  commencement  of  the  year  1813  a  young  man 
resided  in  Vienna ,  whose  brilliant  talents  had  won  him  a  most 
enviable  social  position.  The  purity  of  his  principles  and  the 
high  moral  tone  of  his  character  fortunately  protected  him 
from  those  fatal  allurements  that,  in  Courts  and  capitals,  are 
so  seductive;  which  first  tempt,  then  tarnish,  and  finally  destroy 
for  all  purposes  of  good  the  glorious  gift  of  genius. 

"  Living  in  a  state  of  society  where  men  had  not  yet  learned 
to  appraise  noble  aspirations,  generous  impulses,  glowing 
thoughts  or  elevated  principles  of  action  by  the  dignified 
standard,  'How  does  it  pay?'  Theodore  Korner  had  given 
voice  to  the  aspiration  of  his  mind  and  the  feelings  of  his  soul 
in  noble  songs  that  went  direct  to  the  hearts  of  his  country- 
men and  roused  the  national  spirit  in  an  extraordinary  degree. 
It  was  at  this  time  that  Prussia  raised  her  standard  to  emanci- 
pate herself  from  the  humiliating  rule  of  the  first  Napoleon, 
and  invoked  her  sons  to  rise  for  the  Fatherland.  Lutznow's 
celebrated  brigade  of  volunteers  was  then  formed  and  its  ranks 
filled  with  the  educated  youth  of  the  country,  amongst  whom 
Korner  at  once  took  his  place  as  a  private.  He  was  then  in  the 
full  enjoyment  of  earthly  happiness,  fame,  social  position,  fair 
fortune,  high  esteem  among  the  good  and  educated  of  his  coun- 
try; and,  that  nothing  might  be  wanted  to  fill  his  cup,  the  first 
dream  of  a  pure  and  fortunate  love  was  at  this  moment  illumi- 
nating his  youth  and  harmonizing  his  existence.  All  these 
inducements,  however,  could  not  win  him  to  rest  in  the  mere 
enjoyment  of  life  when  duty  called  him  to  its  move  active  exer- 


38  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

else  at  the  post  of  danger.     He  thus  expressed  his  motives  at 
the  time,  in  a  letter  to  his  father: 

"  '  I  swear  to  God  the  sentiments  which  animate  me  are,  a 
firm  belief  that  no  sacrifices  are  too  great  for  the  liberty  of  our 
countiy.  I  feel  compelled  to  rush  into  this  tempest.  Shall  I, 
far  from  the  path  of  my  brave  brethren,  send  them  hymns  and 
songs  inspired  by  a  safe  and  cowardly  enthusiasm  ?  Wo ! ' 

''Active,  energetic,  obedient,  disciplined  and  brave,  Korner 
became  specially  distinguished  in  this  great,  distinguished  corps, 
and  was  soon  appointed  Adjutant  of  it.  On  the  26th  of  August, 
1813,  the  corps  of  Lutznow  confronted  the  French  at  Kitzen. 
They  halted  in  the  forest  to  rest  for  an  hour  at  the  grey  light 
of  the  morning.  During  this  interval,  Korner  composed  his 
celebrated  "Prayer  during  Battle,"  (of  which  we  give  an 
attempt  at  an  English  version).  Korner  read  it  to  a  friend  at 
the  moment  he  wrote  it;  whilst  still  reciting  it  the  bugle  sounded 
the  advance.  In  an  instant  he  was  in  the  front  of  battle,  and 
as  the  vanquished  French  gave  way  and  retreated  before  the 
fiery  enthusiasm  of  Lutznow's  corps,  Korner  exultingly  led  the 
pursuit,  and  in  the  act  of  cheering  on  his  countrymen,  he  fell, 
pierced  by  a  grape  shot,  and  found  the  glorious  death,  at  the 
early  age  of  22,  which  he  had  poetically  prophesied.  All  Ger- 
many mourned  the  fate  of  the  brave  and  gifted  young  patriot. 
But  why  should  he  have  been  mourned  ?  His  was  a  fortunate 
and  happy  destiny,  briefly  but  nobly  accomplished.  He  passed 
from  earth  with  all  life's  bright  illusions  undispelled,  while  fame 
and  love,  and  glory,  and  virtue,  were  still  realities  to  him,  before 
a  questionable  experience  had  chilled  his  faith,  or  worldly  wis- 
dom with  its  plausible  expediencies  had  taken  the  place  of  nobler 
motives  and  simpler  purpose.  He  fell  on  the  frontier  of  his 
native  land,  driving  the  foe  from  her  soil,  giving  force  and 
vitality  to  heroic  sentiment  by  heroic  deeds,  and  casting  over 


BARTHOLOMEW  BOWLING.  :j'J 

all  the  brighter  halo  of  a  pure,  a  virtuous  and  a  devotional 
spirit. " 

PRAYER    DURING    BATTLE. 

[From  the  German  of  Theodore  Korner.] 

FATHER,  I  call  to  Thee! 
Roaring  around  me  the  cannons  storm; 
Like  a  shroud  their  lightnings  enwrap  my  form. 

Guide  of  the  battles,  I  call  to  Thee: 

Father !  to-day  be  a  guide  to  me. 

Father,  oh  guide  me! 
Lord  of  my  life  and  breath, 
Give  me  to  victory  or  to  death; 

Even  as  thou  wiliest  so  to  me. 

God,  I  acknowledge  Thee! 

God,  I  acknowledge  Thee 
In  the  fair  woodland's  light, 
As  in  the  tempest  of  the  fight. 

Fountain  of  Mercy,  I  acknowledge  Thee! 

Father,  give  blessing  unto  me. 

Father,  oh  bless  me! 
My  life  into  thy  hands  I  give. 
Tis  thine  to  take  or  bid  me  live. 

On  life  or  death,  oh,  let  Thy  blessing  be. 

Father!  Thy  child  gives  praise  to  Thee. 

Father,  I  praise  Thee! 
This  holy  strife,  bless  Thou,  O  Lord; 
Give  to  me  strength  and  guide  my  sword. 

Falling  or  conquering,  praise  to  Thee! 

God,  I  bow  willingly. 


40  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

God,  I  bow  willingly. 
When  death  comes  in  the  battle  glow, 
Even  as  my  heart's  warm  currents  flow, 

To  Thee,  my  God,  I  make  the  offering  free. 

Father,  O  Father,  hear!  I  call  on  Thee! 

Since  we  had  the  privilege  of  publishing  in  the 
St.  Joseph's  Union  the  foregoing  biographical  sketch, 
Mr.  William  Dowling,  who  is  himself  a  writer  of 
ability  also,  has  kindly  placed  at  our  disposal  a  large 
number  of  his  brother's  poems,  both  in  print  and 
manuscript.  This  collection  comprises  nearly  all 
of  Bartholomew  Dowling's  reliques,  and  it  affords 
us  much  pleasure  to  think  that  it  is  through  the 
medium  of  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS  they  will  be 
given  to  the  public  for  the  first  time  in  a  collected 
form,  and  handed  down  to  future  generations  of 
Irish- American  readers. 

Most  of  the  historical  verses  were  written  for  and 
published  in  the  Nation,  at  a  time  when  the  editors 
of  that  journal  had  determined  to  write  a  ballad 
history  of  Ireland.  This  was  a  pet  scheme  of  Davis, 
and  to  the  task  he  addressed  himself  with  an 
earnestness  which  was  equalled  only  by  his  success. 
Dowling,  then  residing  in  Limerick,  was  commis- 
sioned to  chronicle  in  stirring  verse  all  the  historic 
events  of  national  interest  that  had  occurred  in 
recent  days  or  old  within  the  confines  of  Thomond. 
As  a  result  we  have  a  number  of  splendid  ballads 


BARTHOLOMEW  DOWLING.  41 

such  as  "Sarsfield's  Sortie,"  "  The  Vision  of  King 
Brian/'  "The  Assault  on  Limerick/'  "The  Brigade 
at  Fontenoy,"  and  many  others  equally  calculated  to 
kindle  the  enthusiasm  of  the  masses  and  nerve  the 
arms  of  struggling  patriots. 

Though  Mr.  Dowling  wrote  not  a  few  sweet  lyrics, 
which  go  to  prove  that  he  possessed  in  a  marked 
degree  both  the  sentiment  and  inspiration  so  essen- 
tial to  success  in  that  species  of  composition,  yet  it 
is  quite  evident  that  ballad-writing,  or  narrative 
poetry,  was  his  forte;  and,  had  not  his  plans  and 
those  of  his  associates  been  frustrated  by  the  brute 
force  that  stood  behind  English  bayonets,  he 
undoubtedly  would  have  left  us  many  more  ballads 
as  intensely  national  in  tone  and  spirit  as  those  to 
be  found  in  this  collection. 

That  awe-inspiring  poem  entitled  "Hurrah  for  the 
Next  that  Dies/'  conclusively  proves  that  our  author 
possessed  a  mine  of  dramatic  genius  which  was  no 
more  than  prospected.  He  seems  to  have  been 
unconscious  of  possessing  this  power,  and  it  went 
undeveloped  to  the  grave.  In  his  brief,  busy  life, 
perhaps,  he  never  had  within  reach  the  opportunity 
necessary  for  such  development. 

His  claim  to  the  authorship  of  this  poem  has  been 
brought  into  question  of  late,  and  it  has  been  ascribed 
to  one  Capt.  Walter  Dobenay,  serving  in  India  at  the 
time  of  the  epidemic  to  which  the  verses  allude. 


42  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

But  the  name  of  Mr.  Dowling  has  nearly  always 
been  attached  to  this  strange  poem.  It  appears  over 
his  name  on  page  787  in  Henry  Coates'  Encyclopedia 
of  Poetry,  published  at  Philadelphia,  when  the  poem 
was  yet  fresh  in  the  public  mind.  We  have  seen  it 
ascribed  to  Dowling  in  other  publications  also,  but 
never  more  than  once  heard  of  its  being  the  compo- 
sition of  "  that  officer  in  India,"  Capt.  Dobenay. 

About  the  strongest  reason  put  forward  for  con- 
necting it  with  the  name  of  this  British  captain  is 
the  assertion  of  a  pedantic  writer  in  a  late  issue  of 
a  local  paper.  He  gives  neither  proofs  nor  authori- 
ties, however,  to  substantiate  his  assertion. 

Mr.  Dowling  "  was  never  in  India,"  it  is  true; 
neither  was  he  ever  at  Fontenoy.  Yet  he  wrote  that 
inimitable  martial  ballad  called  "The  Brigade  at 
Fontenoy." 

He  had  an  uncle,  however,  who  died  in  India  when 
the  poet  was  a  mere  boy,  and  ever  after,  both  at 
home  and  in  exile,  the  genial  bard  took  a  deep 
interest  in  the  happenings  of  that  plundered  land. 

He  has  written  another  poem  of  much  merit, 
which  has  for  its  subject  an  incident  in  India,  and 
for  title,  "  The  Relief  of  Lucknow."  This  poem  is 
now  before  us,  and  so  far  as  we  are  aware,  nobody 
doubts  that  he  is  the  author  of  it.  It  was  not  neces- 
sary, therefore,  for  him  to  go  to  India  in  order  to 
write  such  a  poem. 


BARTHOLOMEW  DOWLING.  43 

Now  comes  one  of  our  strongest  proofs.  The  poem 
in  dispute  was  first  printed  in  this  city  in  1858. 
Mr.  Dowling  was  then  editor  of  the  San  Francisco 
Monitor.  Mr.  P.  J.  Thomas,  505  Clay  street,  one  of 
the  founders  of  that  paper,  was  also  the  publisher. 
He  has  a  distinct  recollection  of  putting  the  poem  in 
type  from  the  manuscript  of  Bartholomew  Dowling. 
He  still  clearly  remembers  the  comments  passed  on 
it  in  the  office  of  the  paper  when  it  was  read  in  his 
presence  by  the  author  We  are  glad  that  there  is  a 
living  witness  to  settle  this  question  of  disputed 
authorship. 

As  a  prose  writer  Dowling  was  brilliant,  copious 
and  convincing.  His  leading  articles  in  the  back 
files  of  the  Monitor  attest  the  truth  of  this  assertion 
and  bear  us  out  in  saying  that  he  was  no  novice  in 
the  politics  of  his  time.  He  took  no  part  in  politics, 
however,  more  than  that  of  giving  his  views  regard- 
ing the  issues  of  the  day  to  the  readers  of  the  Monitor. 
Though  fond  of  the  society  of  active  and  learned 
men,  a  fine  conversationalist  and  brilliant  public 
speaker,  he  was  never  seen  in  the  political  arena  of 
his  adopted  country.  The  spoils  of  office  had  no 
charms  for  him.  In  Ireland,  when  the  hopes  and 
aspirations  of  the  '48  men  were  high,  the  part  he 
took  in  establishing  " physical  force"  clubs  proved 
that  he  possessed  organizing  as  well  as  literary 
ability. 


44  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

Possessing  but  one  aim  in  life — the  liberation  of 
Ireland  from  English  thraldom — Mr.  Dowling  never 
married.  All  his  energies  and  intellectual  gifts  were 
devoted  to  the  cause  of  Irish  independence.  Out  of 
that  cause  he  made  no  capital.  He  was  honestly  and 
honorably  devoted  to  it,  and  his  character  as  Irish 
Patriot  comes  down  to  us  without  stain  and  without 
reproach.  His  early  youth  and  manhood  were  given 
to  a  noble  cause.  His  heart  and  hopes  were  set  on 
the  regeneration  of  his  native  land,  and  although  the 
work  was  not  accomplished  he  labored  not  in  vain. 
Nor  is  his  memory  likely  to  perish.  It  is  insepara- 
bly connected  with  the  "  Brigade  at  Fontenoy,"  and 
that  is  destined  to  endure  as  long  as  the  martial 
spirit  of  the  Irish  Celt. 

THE  DEATH-SONG  OF  THE  VIKING. 

[There  is  a  Scandinavian  legend  that  Siegfried,  the  "Viking,"  feeling  that 
he  was  at  the  point  of  death,  caused  himself  to  be  placed  on  the  deck  of  his 
ship;  the  sails  were  hoisted,  the  vessel  set  on  fire,  and  in  this  manner  he 
drifted  out  to  sea,  alone,  and  finished  his  career.  "] 

MY  race  is  run,  my  errand  done,  the  pulse  of  life  beats  low; 
My  heart  is  chill,  and  the  conquering  will  has  lost  its  fiery  glow. 
Launch  once  again  on  the  northern  main  my  battleship  of  old: 
I  would  die  on  the  deck,  'mid  storm  and  wreck,  as  befits  a 
Viking  bold. 

I  know  no  fears,  but  the  mist  of  years  that  has  gathered  round 

my  track 
For  a  moment  deal's,  and  my  youth's  compeers  again  to  my 

side  come  back; 


BAKTHOLOMEW   BOWLING.  45 

And  the  tall  ships  reel  o'er  their  iron  keel,  as  we  sweep  down  on 
the  foe, 

Like  a  giant's  form  amid  the  storm,  where  the  mighty  tem- 
pests blow. 

Again  I  gaze  on  the  leaping  blaze  o'er  a  conquered  city  rise, 

As  in  those  days,  when  the  Skald's  wild  lays,  sang  the  fame  of 
our  high  emprise; 

When  our  ships  went  forth  from  the  stormy  North  with  the 
Scandinavian  banda 

Who  backward  bore  to  the  Baltic's  shore  the  spoil  of  the  West- 
ern lands. 

But  my  race  is  run,  my  errand  done;  so  bear  me  to  my  ship. 
Place  my  battle-brand  in  this  dying  hand,  and  the  wine-cup  to 

my  lip; 

Then  loose  each  sail  to  the  rising  gale  and  lash  the  helm  a-lee. 
Alone,  alone,  on  my  drifting  throne,  I  would  view  my  realm. 

the  sea. 

My  realm  and  grave  the  northern  wave,  where  the  tempest's 
voice  will  sing 

My  death-song  loud,  where  flame  shall  shroud  the  ocean's  war- 
rior-king. 

Whilst  heroes  wait  at  Valhalla's  gate  to  proudly  welcome  me. 

For  my  race  is  run,  my  errand  done.    Receive  thy  Chief,  O  sea! 

THE  BRIGADE  AT  FONTENOY. 

BY  our  camp-fires  rose  a  murmur 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day, 
And  the  sound  of  many  footsteps 

Spoke  the  advent  of  the  fray; 


46  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

And  as  we  took  our  places 

Few  and  stern  were  our  words, 

While  some  were  tightening  horse-girths, 
And  some  were  girding  swords. 

The  trumpet  blast  has  sounded 

Our  footmen  to  array, 
The  willing  steed  has  bounded, 

Impatient  for  the  fray. 
The  green  flag  is  unfolded, 

While  rose  the  cry  of  joy: 
*  *  Heaven  speed  dear  Ireland's  banner 

This  day  at  Fontenoy!" 

We  looked  upon  that  banner, 

And  the  memory  arose 
Of  our  homes  and  perished  kindred, 

Where  the  Lee  or  Shannon  flows; 
And  we  looked  upon  that  banner, 

And  we  swore  to  God  on  high, 
To  smite  to-day  the  Saxon's  might — 

To  conquer  or  to  die. 

Loud  swells  the  charging  trumpet — 

'Tis  a  voice  from  our  own  land — 
God  of  battles !   God  of  vengeance ! 

Guide  to-day  the  patriot's  brand' 
There  are  stains  to  wash  away, 

There  are  memories  to  destroy 
In  the  best  blood  of  the  Briton, 

To-day,  at  Fontenoy. 


BARTHOLOMEW  BOWLING.  47 

Plunge  deep  the  fiery  rowels 

In  a  thousand  reeking  flanks. 
Down,  chivalry  of  Ireland, 

Down  on  the  British  ranks ! 
Now  shall  their  serried  columns 

Beneath  our  sabres  reel. 
Through  their  ranks,  then,  with  the  war-horse; 

Through  their  bosoms  with  the  steel ! 

With  one  shout  for  good  King  Louis, 

And  the  fair  land  of  the  vine, 
Jjke  the  wrathful  Alpine  tempest 

We  swept  upon  their  line. 
Then  rang  along  the  battle-field 

Triumphant  our  hurrah, 
And  we  smote  them  down,  still  cheering, 

"  Erin,  slanthagal  go  bragh." 

As  prized  as  is  the  blessing 

From  an  aged  father's  lip ; 
As  welcome  as  the  haven 

To  the  tempest  driven  ship; 
As  dear  as  to  the  lover 

The  smile  of  gentle  maid, 
Is  this  day  of  long-sought  vengeance 

To  the  swords  of  the  brigade. 

See  their  scattered  forces  flying, 

A  broken,  routed  line. 
See,  England,  what  brave  laurels 

For  your  brow  to-day  we  twine. 


48  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

O,  thrice  blessed  the  hour  that  witnessed 

The  Briton  turn  to  flee 
From  the  chivalry  of  Erin 

And  France's  "fleur  de  Us." 

As  we  lay  beside  our  camp-fires 

When  the  sun  had  passed  away, 
And  thought  upon  our  brethren 

Who  had  perished  in  the  fray, 
We  prayed  to  God  to  grant  us, 

And  then  we'd  die  with  joy, 
One  day  upon  our  own  dear  land 

Like  this  at  Fontenoy. 

HYMN  OF  THE  IMPERIAL  GUARD. 

UP,  comrades,  up,  the  bugle  peals  the  note  of  war's  alarms, 
And  the  cry  is  ringing  sternly  round,  that  calls  the  land  to  arms; 
Adieu,  adieu,  fair  land  of  France,  where  the  vine  of  Brennus 

reigns; 
We  go  where  the  blooming  laurels  grow,  on  the  bright  Italian 

plains. 
Advance!  advance!  brave  sons  of   France,  before  the  startled 

world; 
For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled. 

Our  eagles  shall  fly  'neath  many  a  sky,  with  a  halo  round  their 

way, 
Where   History  flings,  on   their  flashing   wings,  the   light  of 

Glory's  ray; 


BARTHOLOMEW   DOWLING.  49 

And  we  shall  bear  them  proudly  on,  through  many  a  mighty 

fray, 
That  shall  win  old  nations  back  to  life,  in  the  glorious  coming 

day. 
Then  advance,  advance,  ye  sons  of  France,  before  the  startled 

world, 
For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled. 

The  glowing  heart  of  the  land  of  Art,  throbbing  for  Liberty, 
Our  swords  invoke,  to  erase  the  yoke  from  beauteous  Italy. 
And  the  Magyar  waits,  with  kindling  hope,  the  aid  of  the  Gallic 

hand, 
To  drive  the  hated  Austrians  forth,  from  the  old  Hungarian 

land. 
Then  advance,  advance,  ye  sons  of  France,  before  the  startled 

world, 
For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled. 

See  the  Briton,  pale,  as  he  dons  his  mail,  for  the  coming  conflict 

shock, 
And  before  his  eyes,  see  the   phantom  rise,  of  the  Chief  on 

Helena's  rock; 
In  foreboding  fears,  already  he  hears  through  palace  and  mart 

anew, 

Our  avenging  shout,  o'er  the  battle  rout— remember  Waterloo! 
Then  advance,  advance,  ye  sons  of  France,  before  the  startled 

world. 
For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled. 

And,  hark,  a  wail  from  our  kindred  Gael,  comes  floating  from 

the  West— 
That  gallant  race,  whose   chosen  place   was  ever  our  battle's 

crest ;  5 


50  IPJSH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Now  is  the  day  we  can  repay  the  generous  debt  we  owe 
To  Irish  blood,  that  freely  flowed  to  conquer  France's  foe. 
Then  advance,  advance,  ye  sons  of  France,  before  the  startled 

world, 
For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled. 

Old  Tricolor,  as  in  days  of  yore,  you  shall  wave  o'er  vanquished 

kings, 
And  your  folds  shall  fly  'neath  an  English  sky,  on  Victory's 

crimson  wings; 
And  Europe's  shout  shall  in  joy  ring  out,  hailing  freedom  in 

thy  track, 
When  our  task  is  done,  and  we  bear  thee  on,  to  France  with 

glory  back. 
Then  advance,  advance,  ye  sons  of  France,  before  the  startled 

world, 
For  France,  once  more,  her  tricolor  in  triumph  hath  unfurled. 

.      HURRAH  FOR  THE  NEXT  THAT  DIES! 

[This  remarkable  poem  relates  to  revelry  in  India  at  a  time  when  the 
English  officers  serving  in  that  country  were  being  struck  down  by  pestilence. 
Tt  has  been- correctly  styled  "the  very  poetry  of  military  despair."] 

WE  meet  'neath  the  sounding  rafter, 

And  the  walls  around  are  bare: 
As  they  shout  back  our  peals  of  laughter, 

It  seems  as  the  dead  were  there. 
Then  stand  to  your  glasses ! — steady ! 

We  drink  'fore  our  comrades'  eyes; 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already: 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 


BARTHOLOMEW   BOWLING.  51 

Not  here  are  the  goblets  glowing, 

Not  here  is  the  vintage  sweet ; 
Tis  cold  as  our  hearts  are  growing, 

And  dark  as  the  doom  we  meet. 
But  stand  to  your  glasses! — steady! 

And  soon  shall  our  pulses  rise. 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already : 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies : 

There's  many  a  hand  that's  shaking, 

And  many  a  cheek  that's  sunk ; 
But  soon,  though  our  hearts  are  breaking, 

They'll  burn  with  the  wine  we've  drunk. 
Then  stand  to  your  glasses !— steady ! 

'Tis  here  the  revival  lies; 
Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already: 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Time  was  when  we  laughed  at  others; 

We  thought  we  were  wiser  then. 
Ha!  ha!  let  them  think  of  their  mothers, 

Who  hope  to  see  them  again. 
No !     Stand  to  your  glasses !— steady ! 

The  thoughtless  is  here  the  wise; 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already: 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Not  a  sigh  for  the  lot  that  darkles, 

Not  a  tear  for  the  friends  that  sink ; 
We'll  fall  'mid  the  wine-cup's  sparkles, 

As  mute  as  the  wine  we  drink. 


52  IKISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Come !     Stand  to  your  glasses ! — steady ! 

Tis  this  that  the  respite  buys; 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already: 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Who  dreads  to  the  dust  returning  ? 

Who  shrinks  from  the  sable  shore, 
Where  the  high  and  haughty  yearning 

Of  the  soul  can  sting  no  more  ? 
No !     Stand  to  your  glasses ! — steady ! 

This  world  is  a  world  of  lies; 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already : 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Cut  off  from  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Betray 'd  by  the  land  we  find, 
When  the  brightest  are  gone  before  us, 

And  the  dullest  are  left  behind. 
Stand! — stand  to  your  glasses! — steady! 

Tis  all  we  have  left  to  prize; 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already: 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies! 


THE  FOREIGN  SHAMROCK. 

DOWN  in  the  ocean  of  the  years  my  ship  and  freight  hath  gone, 
And  the  wave  of  Time  o'er  the  perished  wreck  is  slowly  surging 

on. 
To-day,  on  the  shore  of  this  Western  land,  that  wave  brings 

back  to  me 
A  shamrock  green,  and,  in  its  sheen,  my  long  lost  argosy. 


BARTHOLOMEW   DO\VLING.  53 

I  place  the  leaves  above  my  heart,  as  a  wondrous  talisman, 
For  they  bear  me  back  to  a  better  time,  ere  the  exile's  lot  began; 
And  again,  in  the  flush  of  glowing  youth,  among  my  own 

I  stand, 
In  the  bright  mirage  of  a  generous  hope,  in  my  own  lost  native 

land. 

What  memories  throng  round  this  triple  leaf,  and,  phantom- 
like,  arise, 

O'er  sordid  cares  and  lonely  toil,  to  the  spirit's  longing  eyes, 

When  the  will  was  strong,  and  the  purpose  proud,  and  the  fresh 
heart  only  knew 

An  earnest  faith,  and  a  fiery  throb,  and  a  trustful  love  and  true! 

Hence — hence,  with  every  mean  desire,  with  selfishness  and 

pride! 

And  be  this  day,  on  life's  rude  way,  beloved  and  sanctified; 
And  from  the  Irish  exile's  heart,  with  many  a  fault  o'ercast 
Let  Faith  and  Hope  and  Love  arise,  as  incense  to  the  past. 

ODORS. 

— "A  valley  where  he  sees 
Things  lost  on  earth." — Milton. 

A  BREATH  of  south  wind,  floating  free, 
Wafts  odors  faint  from  distant  flowers, 
Waking  a  subtle  sense — and  hours, 

Long  vanished,  come  again  to  me. 

A  voice,  long  silent,  strikes  my  ear, 

Whose  gentle  whisperings,  soft  and  low, 
Woke  all  the  music  long  ago 

That  youth's  pure  dreaming  loved  to  hear. 


54  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

A  vanished  hand,  whose  touch  once  gave 
A  thrill  of  heavenly  life  to  mine, 
Again  the  spring-flowers  seem  to  twine 

Beside  a  silvery  river's  wave. 

The  joy  is  dead  and  a  dull  pain 

Comes  wafted  on  this  soft  perfume, 
While  the  dim  past  seems  to  entomb 

Phantoms  of  buried  dreams  again. 

SARSFIELD'S  SORTIE. 

KING  James'  banner  floats  above 

The  city's  southern  tower, 
Defying  proudly  to  the  last 

The  Dutch  usurper's  power; 
And  Hope  seeks  there  a  resting  place 

For  Freedom's  shattered  wing, 
And  faithful  Limerick  stands  alone 

For  Ireland's  rightful  King. 

The  Chiefs  are  gathered  for  debate 

Within  the  civic  hall, 
While  foes  are  gathering  thick  around 

Her  closely  leaguered  wall; 
And  news  has  come  that  William  sends 

A  ponderous  battering  train 
To  breach  the  walls  that  by  assault 

His  warriors  failed  to  gain. 

Out  spoke  the  Mayor:   "  'Tis  bootless  strife 

For  James'  ruined  throne; 
The  land  is  vanquished  east  and  west — 

We  struggle  now  alone. 


BARTHOLOMEW  BOWLING.  55 

And  famine  soon  will  chill  the  heart 

That  fearlessly  would  brave 
An  open  field  or  leaguered  wall, 

The  soldier's  bloody  grave. " 

"  Now,  by  the  spirit  of  my  sires!" 

The  gallant  Sarsfield  cried, 
' '  We  shall  not  truckle  to  the  foe 

While  swords  are  by  our  side. 
Give  me  but  fifty  daring  hearts — 

Nay,  never  frown  or  chide — 
And,  by  my  faith!  King  William's  train 

Ne'er  sees  the  Shannon's  side." 

He  gazed  a  moment  sternly  round; 

They  hail  his  words  with  cheers, 
And  quick  into  their  saddles  spring 

The  fifty  volunteers. 
Then  through  the  eastern  sally-port 

They  spin  with  headlong  speed, 
And  "  Sarsfield  to  the  rescue!"  rings 

In  Limerick's  hour  of  need. 

On  swept  they,  like  a  whirlwind, 

Knockanny's  hill  to  gain; 
Where  twice  two  hundred  cannoniers 

Are  guarding  William's  train; 
On,  on  they  dashed,  no  word  they  spoke, 

Nor  bridle  rein  they  drew, 
Till  Ireland's  hated  foreign  foe 

Had  met  their  eager  view. 


56  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

Hark,  hark!  upon  the  startled  foe 

Now  bursts  their  wild  hurrah: 
"  Down,  down  upon  the  foreign  slaves! 

Upon  them !     Smite  and  slay ! 
Trample  the  robbers  to  the  earth ! 

Ay,  cleave  them  to  the  core! 
To  spare  the  plunderers  of  our  homes 

Were  scorn  for  evermore." 

The  field  is  won,  the  prize  is  gained 

They  sallied  forth  to  gain; 
The  Dutchman's  brave  artillery 

And  all  his  battering  train 
Lie  shattered  wide  and  harmless 

By  noble  Sarsfield's  skill, 
Whose  glory  haunts  our  memories, 

And  fires  our  spirits  still. 

They  durst  not  try  to  storm  again, 

For  few  came  back  to  tell 
How,  'neath  the  brave  defenders, 

The  storming  party  fell. 
Next  day,  before  the  sun  had  gilt 

The  banner  of  our  liege, 
The  foe  withdrew  their  army, 

And  Ginkle  raised  the  siege. 

No  monuments  are  towering 
To  honor  Sarsfield's  name , 

But  in  faithful  Irish  bosoms 
There  are  temples  to  his  fame. 


BARTHOLOMEW   BOWLING.  57 

And  marble  shrines  shall  perish 

And  ages  roll  away 
Ere  his  memory  is  forgotten, 

Or  the  glory  of  that  day. 

THE  VISION   OF  KING  BRIAN. 

[Time.— The  Night  before  the  Battle  of  Clontarf.] 
THE  great  old  Irish  houses,  the  proud  old  Irish  names, 
Like  stars  upon  the  midnight,  to-day  their  lustre  gleams. 
Gone  are  the  great  old  houses,  the  proud  old  names  are  low 
That  shed  a  glory  on  the  land  a  thousand  years  ago. 

These  were  the  great  old  houses,  o'er  whom  the  spirits  held 
Mystic  watchings  at  Life's  closing,  in  the  distant  days  of  eld; 
Oft  foretold  they  of  Death's  advent,  in  a  slowly  chanted  wail, 
And  often  in  the  tones  that  glad  a  warrior  in  his  mail. 

And  wheresoe'er  a  scion  of  those  great  old  houses  be, 

In  the  country  of  his  fathers,  or  the  lands  beyond  the  sea, 

In  city,  or  in  hamlet,  by  the  valley,  on  the  hill, 

The  spirit  of  his  brave  old  sires  is  watching  o'er  him  still. 

'Twas  thus  before  the  battle  that  freed  the  Irish  land, 
That  crushed  the  Dane  forever  on  Clontarf's  empurpled  strand; 
Twas  thus  that  brave  King  Brian,  at  the  mid  hour  of  the  night 
Saw  a  vision  as  he  slumbered,  bedtting  kingly  sight: 

A  woman  pale  and  beautiful ,  a  woman  sad  and  fair — 

Proud  and  stately  was  her  stature,  black  and  flowing  was  her 

hair; 
White  as  snow  the  robe  around  her,  floating  shadow-like  and 

free, 
Whilst  with  a  silver  trumpet's  tone,  to  the  sleeper,  thus  spoke 

she: 


58  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

"  King!  unto  thee  'tis  given  to  triumph  o'er  the  Dane— 
To  drive  his  routed  army  forth  unto  the  Northern  Main, 
But  the  palace  of  thy  fathers  thou  shalt  never  see  again; 
Thou,  and  the  son  thou  lovest,  shall  sleep  amongst  the  slain 

"  Yet  far  into  the  future  thy  memory  shall  live, 
And  to  the  souls  of  men  unborn  a  glorious  impulse  give; 
Thy  dynasty  shall  perish  before  a  factious  band, 
But  thy  spirit  shall  forever  dwell  upon  the  Irish  land. 

"  Men  yet  unborn  shall  know  thee  as  thy  country's  sword  and 

shield, 

Wise  and  prudent  in  the  council,  brave  and  skillful  in  the  field; 
When  the  factious  and  the  spoilers  shall  trample  on  the  free, 
They  will  pray  to  God  to  raise  them  a  Deliverer  like  thee.   • 

"  Thou  shalt  leave  unto  thy  country,  and  the  nations,  a  proud 
name; 

Thou  shalt  leave  it  peace  and  freedom,  and  a  bright  and  glori- 
ous fame; 

Thou  shalt  leave  it  upraised  altars,  happy  homes  and  smiling 
fields 

Where  the  sower  shall  be  reaper  of  what  Heaven's  bounty  yields. 

"  Yet,  trampling  on  thy  country,  the  spoiler's  foot  shall  come, 
Woo'd  to  conquest  and  to  plunder,  by  factious  feuds  at  home; 
Milesian  with  Milesian  shall  battle  day  by  day, 
Till  the  glory  of  the  Irish  land  shall  pass  from  it  away. 

"  The  fanatic  and  the  bigot  shall  come  with  fire  and  brand, 
With  foreign  swords  and  foreign  laws,  black  heart  and  bloody 

hand; 

They  will  trample  on  the  altar,  they  will  trample  on  the  shrine, 
And  pollute  each  holy  relic  that  thy  country  holds  divine. 


BARTHOLOMEW   DOWLING.  59 

"But  thy  country  shall  stand  firm,  thro'  .plunder  and  thro* 

scathe, 

To  that  which  thou  shalt  die  for,  her  consecrated  faith; 
Tho'  her  altars  be  in  ruins,  tho'  her -conquerors  slay  and  rive, 
Yet,  despite  of  ban  or  guerdon,  her  faith  shall  still  survive. 

"Thy  country's  best  and  bravest  shall  struggle  long  and  vain, 
And  some  shall  seek  in  distant  lands  to  'scape  a  conqueror's  chain; 
And  some  shall  fall  from  princely  hall  e'en  to  the  peasant's  shed, 
Anol  many  on  her  hard-fought  fields  shall  slumber  with  the  dead. 

' '  But  the  God  whose  hand  is  stretched  forth  thy  country  to 

chastise, 

In  His  own  good  time  and  fitting  will  bid  the  prostrate  rise; 
For  her  faith  He  hath  recorded  where  the  mighty  seal  is  set, 
And  His  mercy,  aye,  it  shall  gush  forth  and  vivify  her  yet. 

"  In  her  deepest  hour  of  sorrow,  in  her  darkest  hour  of  shame, 
Thy  country  still  shall  treasure  the  glory  of  thy  name. 
In  the  greatest  hour  of  triumph,  when  her  history  shall  bear 
To  the  future  all  her  glory,  thine  shall  still  be  foremost  there." 

No  more  she  spake  unto  him,  but  passed  like  mist  away, 
As  it  floats  up  from  the  valley,  beneath  the  summer's  ray — 
No  more  spake  she  unto  him,  but  ever  on  the  gale, 
Until  the  hour  of  dawning,  came  a  low  and  mystic  wail. 


Next  day  amid  the  foremost  brave  Murrough,  fighting,  fell, 
The  flower  of  Irish  chivalry — the  son  he  loved  so  well; 
And  from  our  shores  for  ever  was  swept  that  day  the  Dane; 
But  the  old  king  and  his  favorite  son  were  numbered  with  the 
slain. 


60  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

IN    VAIN. 

IN  vain,  how  many  a  year  is  spent,— 

Aye,  long  years  worn  away, 
And  oh,  how  much  to  hope  is  lent, 

It  never  will  repay ! 
For  who  can  tell  the  years  of  toil, 

The  waste  of  heart  and  brain, 
And  the  weary  travail  of  the  soul 

That  have  been  borne  in  vain ! 

The  sleepless  sage  some  star  hath  sought, 

Till  hope  and  sight  grew  dim — 
It  shone  for  eyes  that  loved  it  not; 

But  never  beamed  on  him. 
Thus  fate  will  snatch  the  gem  away 

Which  all  was  given  to 'gain, 
Or  feebly  shed  the  long-sought  ray 

Where  it  may  beam  in  vain. 

The  poet's  song  may  yet  go  forth 

To  many  a  distant  shore, 
To  fling  around  his  land  of  birth 

A  glory  evermore; 
Yet,  o'er  the  lyre  hangs  cloud  and  gloom 

Where  dwells  a  witching  strain, 
And  the  minstrel  yet  will  find  a  tomb 

With  bright  bays  crowned — in  vain. 

The  Chief,  who  seeks  for  endless  life, 
His  country's  pride  and  might; 

Who  wins  his  way  through  days  of  strife 
And  watchings  of  the  night ; 


BARTHOLOMEW   BOWLING.  61 

Whose  voice  the  powers  of  earth  could  shake 

In  senate,  field  or  fane — 
High  hearts  like  these  too  oft  must  break, 

And  often  fall — in  vain. 

And  love,  the  pure  and  true,  that  clings 

In  spite  of  ill  or  check — 
Oh,  many  give  SOME  treasured  things, 

But  THIS  holds  nothing  back. 
Yet  woe  to  well-springs  of  the  heart 

Poured  forth  like  summer  rain, 
While  wealth  could  fail  to  purchase  part 

Of  all  that's  given  in  vain. 

And  some  have  borne  the  blast  unbowed 

To  sink  beneath  the  wave, 
E'en  when  the  bow  was  in  the  cloud, 

Or  life-boat  near  to  save. 
Thus  upon  human  toil  and  care 

Some  blight  will  still  remain: 
So  let  us  lay  our  treasures  where 

They  are  not  heaped  in  vain. 

SONG  FOR  THE  '82  CLUB. 

AT  last  we  meet,  as  brothers  meet, 

A  nation's  strength  combining; 
A  giant  starting  to  his  feet, 

A  long-dimmed  weapon  shining. 
No  longer  foreign  rule  shall  cast 

Its  festering  chain,  to  bind  us; 
The  feuds  and  follies  of  the  past 

Are  forever  cast  behind  us. 


62  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

We  boast  a  still  unconquered  land, 

Despite  their  foreign  charters; 
For  that  dear  isle  we  take  our  stand, 

Her  champions,  or  her  martyrs. 
The  memory  of  her  glorious  dead 

And  her  smiling  fields  remind  us 
Of  the  debt  we  owe  the  land  we  tread, 

While  our  feuds  we  cast  behind  us. 

Up,  brothers!  there  is  work  to  do — 

Go  take  a  foremost  station, 
To  build  the  temple  up  again, 

To  raise  a  fallen  nation. 
To  spread  her  glory  far  and  wide — 

None  shall  divided  find  us; 
But  working  bravely,  side  by  side, 

While  the  past  is  cast  behind  us. 

THE  LAUNCHING   OF  -LA  GLOIRE." 

[The  magnificent  French  line-of-battle  ship  "La  Gloire"  was  launched  at 
Cherbourg  in  the  year  1861.  This  was  then  the  largest  war  ship  in  the  world, 
presenting  the  novel  feature  of  being  entirely  cased  in  steel.  "La  Gloire" 
was  at  that  time  justly  considered  the  pride  of  the  French  Navy.] 

COME  bare  the  arm  and  grasp  the  sledge,  to  strike  the  shores 

away, 

For  our  work  is  finished,  and  we  launch  a  royal  ship  to-day. 
All  panoplied  like  knight  of  old — cuirassed  in  mail  of  steel, 
From  stem  to  stern,  from  side  to  side,  from  bulwark  to  the  keel. 

A  flag  for  our  ship,  our  royal  ship,  to  bear  to  eveiy  shore, 
To  float  and  fly  o'er  every  sea  where  waves  and  tempests  roar — 
Up  to  the  peak  with  France's  flag,  the  glorious  tricolor, 
Sacred  to  victory,  freedom,  fame,  now  and  for  evermore! 


BARTHOLOMEW  BOWLING.  63 

A  name  for  our  ship,  our  royal  ship,  to  live  on  History's  page, 

That  shall  ring  like  a  nation's  rallying  cry  where  the  fierce  sea- 
battles  rage ; 

Sprinkle  our  ship  with  the  southern  wine,  from  stern  to  armed 
prow: 

In  the  name  of  France,  and  France's  fame,  we  name  thee 
"  Glory  "now. 

Oh,  wondrous  triumph  of  man's  art,  what  destiny  is  thine! 
Where  Northern  tempests  madly  rave,  or  tropic  glories  shine — 
Wrestling  with  whirlwinds  in  their  wrath,  like  a  giant  fired 

with  wine, 
Or  bearing  ocean  warriors  on  through  the  sea-fight's  battle's  line ! 

No  galleon  from  the  Spanish  Main — no  Eastern  argosie — 
E'er  bore  so  rich  a  freight  as  thine,  proud  monarch  of  the  sea; 
For  a  thousand  conquering,  fiery  hearts  are  throbbing  now  in 

thee, 
For  France's  name,  for  France's  fame,  for  death  or  victory. 

What  shadows  from  the  past  shall  haunt  thy  pathway  on  the 

main ! — 

The  great  traditions  of  the  land  of  mighty  Charlemagne ! 
Illuming  with  their  undimmed  light  a  heritage  of  fame, 
For  thee  to  guard,  for  thee  to  keep  and  mingle  with  thy  name. 

Up  from  Atlantic  waves  shall  come,  as  through  the  foam  you 

sweep, 

The  echo  of  a  gurgling  cheer  that  once  rose  from  the  deep, 
As   "  La  Vengeur "    fighting  England's    fleet,   sank   in  the 

whelming  sea, 
And  Vive  le  France!  from  her  thousand  men,  rose  up  defiantly. 


64  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Go  bear  thy  flag — go  bear  thy  name — along  the  mountain  wave, 
Thou  proud,  mailed  warrior  of  the  deep,  to  conquer  and  to  save! 
In  storm  or  fight  thy  mission  still  to  grandly  do  and  dare, 
Showing  the  world,  where'er  thou  art,  that  France  in  Glory's 
there. 

THE   CAPTURE   OF  PARIS. 

(FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  VICTOR  CARMINE.) 

[In  the  following  lines  the  writer  illustrates  the  heroic  incidents  in  the 
days  of  July,  1830,  when  a  body  of  the  students  of  the  Polytechnic  School 
broke  out  of  that  institution,  and  headed  the  first  attacks  that  were  made  in 
the  streets  of  Paris,  which  eventuated  in  the  overthrow  of  the  government  of 
Charles  X,  and  the  establishment  of  Louis  Philippe  on  the  throne.] 

A  MIGHTY  crowd,  with  accents  loud,  are  swaying  to  and  fro, 
Where  a  nation's  arm  seems  lifted  up  to  strike  a  nation's  blow. 
Some  shout  aloud,  "  Down  with  the  King!"  some  counsel  calm 

and  slow, 
Some  gaze  about  with  anxious  doubt,  and  some  with  fiery  glow. 

Thus  was  it,  as  the  sun  arose,  o'er  lofty  Notre  Dame, 
When  a  stripling,  but  a  gallant  band,  among  the  people  came, 
With  beardless  lips,  but  manly  hearts,  made  for  the  battle's  van, 
With  skillful  hands,  and  ready  swords,  to  win  the  rights  of  man. 

Out  stepped  young  Dumont  from   their  ranks,  he  waved  his 

bonnet  high , 
Proudly  he  spoke,  in  words  of  fire,  whilst  fiercely  flashed  his 

eye: 

"  A  bas  les  Bourbons !     Follow  us.    We'll  show  you  how  to  die ! " 
"  A  bas  les  Bourbons!"  rang  around,  and  Paris  caught  the  cry. 


BARTHOLOMEW   DOWLING.  65 

Abas  les  Bourbons!     Frenchmen,  on!  the  Polytechnic  leads1 
The  beardless  youth  shall  win  to-day  the  fame  of  heroes'  deeds. 
Down  falls  the  first  in  glory's  lap;  from  twenty  wounds  he 

bleeds; 
Hurrah!  close  up.     His  place  is  filled;  another,  fearless,  leads. 

Hurrah'     they    come,   the     hireling     swords,     Switzer    and 

Allemagne. 

Ho !  Saint  Antoine !  stout  Saint  Antoine !  upon  them  once  again ! 
Up,  up,  Saint  Jaques!  and  smite  them  down!  fear  not  the  fiery 

rain! 
Hurrah  for  freedom  for  the  quick,  and  vengeance  for  the  slain! 

Fear  not  their  swooping  cavalry,  fear  not  their  cannoniers! 
Up,  to  the  deadly  muzzles — up,  heroic  Ecoliers! 
Forth  gushes  flame  and  leaden  hail,  but  as  the  death-cloud  clears, 
The  Polytechnics'  flag  above  the  captured  guns  appears. 

Look  up ,  look  up !    How  brave  it  floats  upon  the  summer  breeze ! 

The  tricolor  is  planted  o'er  the  haughty  Tuilleries. 

Then  high  the  shout  of  triumph  rose,  that  crushed  the  Bourbon's 

throne: 
"  Live  France,  live  France!  the  day  is  won;  proud  Paris  is  our 

own!" 

Time-honored  be  their  memories,  who  for  their  fathers'  land 
Rushed  from  the  students'  solitude  to  grasp  the  patriot's  brand ; 
Time-honored  be  their  gory  graves  who  hated  tyrant  laws, 
Who  loved  the  people — and  who  died,  to  right  the  people's 
cause! 


66  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  COSSACK. 

[From  the  French  of  Beranger] 

HARK,  hark,  my  steed!  come  rouse  thy  speed;  on  the  wings  of 

death  let's  forth  I 
Thou,   the   Cossack's  pride    and    comrade     tried — hark!  the 

trumpets  of  the  North; 
No  enriching  gold  does  thy  saddle  hold;  but  rouse  thee  up,  my 

steed — 

For  the  ready  spoil  of  city  and  soil  awaits  our  daring  deed. 
Then  neigh  in  thy  pride,  my  courser  tried,  for  thy  hoof  with 

conquest  rings, 
And  trample  down  Europe's  old  renown,  and  her  peoples  and 

her  kings. 

Europe  is  old,  her  heart  is  cold,  and  her  ancient  ramparts  low; 
Peace  flies  the  plain,  and,  with  loosened  rein,  we  rush  like  a 

torrent's  flow; 
Come,  and  fill  my  hands,   in  the   Western  lands,   with  the 

treasures  of  the  mart; 
Come,  and  make  thy  stall  in  the  stately  hall,  and  repose  in  the 

homes  of  art. 
Return  to  drink  at  that  river's  brink,  where  thou  before  hast 

been, 
And  lave  thy  flanks  by  the  sunny  banks  of  rebellious  river 

Seine — 
Then  neigh  in  thy  pride,  my  courser  tried,  for  thy  hoof  with 

conquest  rings, 
And  trample  down  Europe's  old  renown,  and  her  peoples  and 

her  kings. 


BARTHOLOMEW   BOWLING.  67 

I  have  seen  at  night,  by  our  camp-fire's  light,  a  phantom  stern 

and  grand, 
Fix  his  ardent  gaze  o'er  the  bivouack's  blaze  and  point  with  his 

armed  hand 
To  the   West,  with  pride,  as  he  fiercely  cried:  "  Once  more 

begins  my  reign." 

'Twas  the  mighty  Hun,  Attilla's  son — I  obey  thy  voice  again! 
Then  neigh  in  thy  pride,  my  courser  tried,  for  thy  hoof  with 

conquest  rings, 
And  trample  down  Europe's  old  renown,  and  her  peoples  and 

her  kings. 

The  glory  and  fame  of  Europe's  name,  that  wreathe  with  pride 

her  brow, 
The  wisdom  and  lore  which  was  hers  of  yore,  but  which  cannot 

save  her  now, 
It  is  time  they  fall!     Engulph  them  all,  in  the  waves  of  dust 

that  rise 
'Round  the  Cossack's  track,  from  thy  hoofs  flung  back,  like  an 

eclipse  in  the  skies. 
Erase,  erase  from  their  ancient  place,  in  the  wrath  of  thy  new 

career, 

Palace  and  mart,  temples  and  art,  laws  and  each  souvenir. 
Then  neigh  in  thy  pride,  my  courser  tried,  for  thy  hoof  with 

conquest  rings, 
And  trample  down  Europe's  old  renown,  and  her  peoples  and 

her  kings. 


68  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 


THE  MIDNIGHT  WATCH. 

GROUPED  in  the  sick  one's  stilly  room, 
Beneath  the  waning  midnight's  gloom, 
While  passed  the  night  hours,  sad  and  slow, 
And  lamp  and  life  were  burning  low; 
We  watched,  where,  passing  forth  from  clay, 
A  loved  and  dying  mother  lay. 

We  watched  in  silence,  for  the  power 
Of  memory  ruled  us  in  that  hour, 
And  pictured  all  that  she  had  been 
Through  life  in  many  a  changing  scene; 
For  true  and  firmly  had  she  trod 
That  earthly  path,  which  ends  with  God. 

What  visions  thronged  around  us  then 
Of  childhood's  days,  come  back  again! 
When,  in  her  fair  and  early  youth, 
We  basked  beneath  her  eyes  of  truth; 
And  sinless  hearts  saw  from  above 
The  great  God's  through  a  mother's  love; 

How  at  the  matron's  tranquil  hearth, 
Where  happy  hours  had  gentle  birth. 
Kindred  and  friends  oft  gathered  'round, 
Where  welcome,  frank  and  kind,  was  found, 
And,  spite  of  change,  and  years  of  care, 
She,  'mid  the  young,  was  youngest  there; 


BARTHOLOMEW   BOWLING. 

How,  in  more  sad  and  later  years, 

With  "  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears/' 

Faithful  and  hopeful  evermore , 

Her  cross  of  life  she  meekly  bore, 

Taking  no  stain  from  adverse  fate 

To  dim  a  spirit  pure  and  great. 

Fainter  and  fainter  comes  each  sigh; 
At  last,  the  parting  hour  is  nigh, 
Her  bark  is  on  the  shadowy  shore 
Where  cares  and  fears  and  hopes  are  o'er. 
Thus,  like  the  twilight  time  of  May, 
Her  spirit  passed  from  earth  away. 

No,  not  all  gone!  though  Heaven  may  claim 

Back  to  its  fount  the  eternal  flame  • 

Her  spirit  with  us  doth  abide, 

As  on  through  life's  dim  paths  we  glide; 

Though  all  unseen,  still  present  there, 

Watching  with  guardian  angel's  care. 

Alas!  all  we  have  left  undone, 
While  yet  thy  life  around  us  shone, 
To  cheer  thy  path  or  glad  thy  time , 
Comes  burning  on  our  hearts  as  crime; 
And  our  atonement  now  must  be 
To  act,  to  live,  and  die  like  thee. 


70  IBISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 


THE  ASSAULT  ON  LIMERICK. 

Ho,  Limerick!  ancient  Limerick,  arouse  thy  heart  to-day; 
Put  harness  on  thy  citizens  and  gird  thee  for  the  fray; 
Nerve  thy  arm  for  thy  homesteads,  for  the  altar  and  the  shrine, 
And  the  time-enduring  memories,  proud  city,  that  are  thine 

Thy  battlements  are  tottering,  thy  walls  are  sapped  away, 
And  yawns  at  length  the  breach  whereon  full  fifty  cannon  play, 
And,  thundering  o'er  the  space  between,  with  fierce  exulting 
cheers, 

Carlisle  and  Drogheda  lead  on  King  William's  grenadiers. 

i 

They've  mounted  on  the  ruined  wall,  two  thousand,  firm  arrayed, 
Casting  before  them,  on  their  path,  the  deadly  hand  grenade. 
And  with  a  shout  of  triumph  they  sweep  upon  their  way, 
Nor  dream  of  what  a  welcome  we've  prepared  for  them  to-day. 

Now  shall  they  feel  our  Irish  steel  thro'  crest  and  helmet  glide; 
For  Sarsfield  's  charging  in  our  van  with  Galway  at  his  side , 
And  where  e'er  his  plume  is  waving,  the  Brandenbergs  lie  low, 
And  the  shout  is  raised  the  loudest:  "  No  quarter  for  the  foe!" 

As  break  the  tempest-driven  waves  recoiling  from  the  rock, 
The  chosen  band  of  Brandenberg  shrink  from  the  fiery  shock, 
And  o'er  the  din  of  battle,  and  o'er  the  wild  hurrah, 
Loud  swells  the  gladsome  tidings:  "  The  foreigners  give  way!" 

Yet  'tis  only  for  a  moment:   fierce  Hanmer's  on  the  wall. 
He  charges  with  his  Danish  guards,  tho'  fast  and  thick  they  fall; 
And  the  stout  brigades  of  Camdon  rush  quickly  to  his  side, 
And  Bolcastel's  good  regiment  to  swell  the  bloody  tide. 


BARTHOLOMEW   BOWLING.  71 

But  tho'  we  are  out  numbered  and  sore  pressed  by  the  foe, 
While  we  have  hands  to  grasp  the  sword  we'll  deal  them  blow 

for  blow; 

Tho'  our  brethren  fall  around  us,  still  our  bravest  and  our  best 
Gather,  like  eagles  to  a  feast,  'round  Sarsfield's  towering  crest. 

In  the  thickest  of  the  battle,  in  the  sorest  hour  of  need, 
When  even  hope  had  left  us,  and  but  honor  bade  us  bleed, 
A  vision  came  upon  us,  such  as  warrior  seldom  saw, 
That  filled  our  hearts  with  daring,  and  our  foemen's  hearts  with 
awe. 

The  matrons  of  our  city,  whose  teachings  hallow  home, — 
The  maidens  of  the  city,  in  their  beauty  and  their  bloom, — 
Join  their  kin  amid  the  carnage,  and  battle  by  their  side, 
The  mother  and  the  daughter,  the  sister  and  the  bride. 

We  paused  but  for  a  moment,  while  o'er  our  spirits  came 
All  the  fond  and  gentle  memories  that  feed  affection's  flame, 
Then  passed  into  our  bosoms  a  wild  and  stern  glow, 
As  we  looked  back  at  our  city,  and  then  forward  at  the  foe. 

We  paused  but  for  a  moment,  then  arose  our  thrilling  cheer, 
Such  as  men  but  seldom  hearken  and  forget  not  when  they  hear, 
While,  beside  our  bravest  warriors,  soft  lily  hands  assail 
The  foe  that  flies  before  us,  like  leaves  before  the  gale. 

And  then  the  breach  their  cannon  made,  we  filled  up  with  their 

dead, 

And  we  chased  them  to  their  trenches,  by  gallant  Sarsfield  led; 
And  we  looked  down  from  our  ramparts,  that  evening,  o'er  the 

plain, 
While  the  twilight  cast  its  shadows,  and  the  foe  entombed  his 

slain. 


72  IEISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 


A  REMINISCENCE  OF  THE  MINES. 

UP  in  a  mountain  solitude 

Beside  a  pile  of  clay, 
A  man  with  shovel,  pick  and  pan 

Stood  at  the  close  of  day. 

His  shirt  and  sash  were  very  red, 

His  nose  was  very  blue, 
And,  though  the  scene  around  was  grand, 

' '  The  prospect J)  would  not  do. 

His  hat! — enough — 'twas  shocking  bad, 
His  sunburnt  neck  was  bare; 

One  eye  looked  droll,  the  other  sad, 
Beneath  his  unkempt  hair. 

His  muddy  jackboots,  of  all  jet 

Were  long  ago  bereft, 
And  unto  them,  like  unto  him, 

But  little  sole  was  left. 

From  out  his  pale,  unsmiling  lips, 
With  rank  beard  overgrown, 

Outspoke  this  lonely  mining  man 
In  semi-growling  tone. 

Whilst  restlessly  his  jackboot  kept 
The  devil's  tattoo  drumming: 

*  I  had  no  sense  in  coming  here, 
I've  gained  no  cents  by  coming. 


BARTHOLOMEW   BOWLING.  73 

"  Fortune,  'tis  written,  smiles  on  fools, 

Wherever  they  may  labor; 
And,  surely,  I've  been  fool  enough 
To  win  her  choicest  favor. 

"  But  ever  she  eludes  my  grasp, 
Despite  the  proofs  I  give  her 
That  I'm  an  ass*.     She  turns  from  me 
To  wanton  with  my  neighbor. 

"  I  have  not  sinned;  as  some  folk  sin — 

I  pick,  but  do  not  steal — 
And  though  my  ways  of  life  are  hard, 
«•     My  heart  is  soft  to  feel. 

"  My  neighbor's  failings  I  let  pass; 

I  covet  not  a  shade 
Of  all  his  goods,  his  ox,  his  ass, 
Nor  man,  nor  servant  maid. 

' c  But  for  this  last  I  claim  no  grace — 

Though  some  may  not  approve  it— 
Because  in  this  infernal  place 
There  are  no  maids  to  covet. 

"  Nor  sparkling  eyes,  nor  beaming  smiles 

That  filled  my  dreams  of  yore ! 

Alas,  alas!    those  days  are  passed — 

My  day-dreams  are  now  "ore." 

"  Oh,  for  one  hour  where  some  one's  eyes 

Are  bright  and  purely  glancing, 
And  some  one's  dainty  little  feet 
To  joyous  music  dancing. 


74  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

"  Where  graceful  forms  are  floating  round  — 

Most  potent  heart-dissolvers — 
None  but  "  rope  dancers  "  here  are  found, 
Surrounded  by  ' '  revolvers. " 

"  Oh,  for  one  hour  where  early  life 

Flowed ,  passing  merrily ; 
Where  youth  still  hung  on  low-toned  words, 
And  not  upon  a  tree. 

"  Where  friends  could  wrangle  and  debate 

About  each  passing  trifle; 
And  meet  the  flash  of  wit,  instead 
Of  bowie-knife  or  rifle."- 

He  paused,  he  sighed,  he  gazed  about; 

Then  spoke:  ' '  Tis  cussed  fine ! 
Oh,  for  a  pail  of  double-stout 

To  cool  this  thirst  of  mine ! 

' '  But  never  more  I'll  taste  a  pot 
Of  Thunder's  glorious  beer ! " — 

The  miner  turned  from  the  spot, 
And  wiped  away  a  tear. 


BARTHOLOMEW  DOWLING.  75 

THE  RELIEF  OF  LUCKNOW. 

MARCH  6,  1858. 
To  THE  EDITOB  OF  THE  MONITOE: 

SIB — I  could  not  help  versifying  this  heroic  episode  in  current  history ; 
but  my  admiration  is  confined  to  the  bravery  and  endurance  of  the  rescuers 
and  rescued,  and  has  no  sympathy  whatever  with  the  cause,  policy  or  govern- 
ment whose  work  they  were  doing.  The  relation  of  the  British  Government 
to  India  is  simply  the  relation  of  the  robber  to  his  victim. 

Yours,  etc., 

MASQUE. 


A  TORN  flag  is  flying, 

Torn  by  shot  and  shell, 
O'er  wounded  men  and  dying, 

In  Lucknow's  citadel, 
Where  the  stern  European 

Hath  fought  so  long  and  well. 

The  ruthless  Asiatic, 

Full  fifty  thousand  strong, 
With  eager  fierceness  waits  its  prey, 

And  round  the  ramparts  throng; 
"  We'll  die  for  duty;  hope  or  fear 

To  us  no  more  belong. 

Look  forth  upon  the  Cawnpore  road; 

Look  forth  to  Allabad— 
Strain,  strain  your  gaze  to  every  point, 

Whence  succor  may  be  had ! 
Have  our  countrymen  forgot  our  need  ? 

This,  this,  than  death  's  more  sad." 


7t>  IBISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

The  sun  hath  westward  passed 
On  the  eighty-seventh  day, 

Since  round  the  leaguered  city, 
The  dusky  foeman  lay; 

On  the  eighty-seventh  weary  night 
Falls  the  young  moon's  tranquil  ray. 

An  island  woman  muses 

On  her  long  lost  highland  home, 

Where  her  worn  form  and  longing  heart 
Never  again  may  come; 

To  the  pleasant  places  of  her  youth, 
Once  more  her  fancies  roam. 

Upward  she  springs,  all  throbbing, 
Beneath  the  moonbeam's  ray; 

A  cry  of  joy  bursts  from  her  lips, 
' '  I  hear  the  pibroch's  play 

'  Campbells  are  coming' — they'll  be  here 
Before  the  break  of  day." 

Nought  spoke  the  weary  warriors, 
All  toil-worn,  stern  and  pale; 

But  every  ear  was  bent  to  hear 
The  tidings  on  the  gale. 

Again  the  night  wind  brought  the  sound 
Of  the  pibrochs  of  the  Gael. 

"  To  arms!"  the  chieftain  cried, 
"  We'll  conquer  once  again; 

To  arms,  and  to  the  Cawnpore  gate!" 
A  fierce  hurrah — and  then 

The  word  was  passed  from  rank  to  rank, 
"  'Tis  Campbell  and  his  men." 


BARTHOLOMEW   DOWLING.  77 

They  come,  the  Highlandmen, 

Upon  the  dusky  foe, 
And  an  aged  warrior  leads  them  on, 

With  a  youthful  hero's  glow; 
And  the  pibrochs  play  the  charging  step 

Of  a  thousand  years  ago. 

As  the  flashing  muskets  roll 

They  raise  their  battle  cry, 
And,  o'er  the  din  of  'the  mingling  steel, 

It  surges  fierce  and  high: 
'Tis  the  Celtic  slogan,  triumphing 

Beneath  that  Orient  sky. 

Ye  warriors,  tried  and  true, 

Rescuers,  and  rescued  brave! 
No  nobler  triumph  ever 

Hath  war  or  glory  gave 
Than  yours,  ye  proud  immortals, 

To  conquer  and  to  save. 

"MORT  SUR  CHAMP  D'HONNEUR." 

OH,  think  not  that  there's  glory  won 

But  on  the  field  of  bloody  strife, 
Where  flashing  blade  and  crushing  gun 

Cut  loose  the  silver  chords  of  life. 
Carve  deep  his  name  in  brass  or  stone, 

Who  for  his  home  and  country  bled, 
Who  lies  uncoffined  and  unknown, 

Upon  the  field  of  honor  dead." 


78  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

But  carve  there,  too,  the  names  of  those 

Who  fought  the  fight  of  faith  and  truth, 
Bending  beneath  life's  wintry  snows, 

Or  battling  in  the  pride  of  youth. 
Whoe'er  have  kindled  one  bright  ray 

In  hearts  whence  hope  and  joy  had  fled, 
Have  not  lived  vainly:  such  as  they 

Are  "  on  the  field  of  honor,  dead." 

And  those  who  sink  on  desert  sand, 
Or  calmly  rest  'neath  ocean  wave, 

Dropping  the  cross  from  weary  hand, 
Telling  no  more  its  power  to  save; 

The  true,  the  pure,  the  brave,  the  good, 
Falling  at  duty's  post  still  shed 

A  radiant  light  o'er  plain  and  flood- 
Though  "  on  the  field  of  honor,  dead." 

Thus  may  we  live,  thus  may  we  die, 

In  earnest,  valiant,  faithful  fight; 
True  to  man's  loftiest  destiny — 

True  to  our  God,  ourselves,  and  right. 
Then  when  we  sleep,  as  sleep  we  must, 

In  ocean's  cell  or  earth's  dark  prison, 
Be  this  memorial  o'er  our  dust, 

Though  dead  "  he  is  not  here,  but  risen." 


JOHN  BANIM 

POET     AND     NOVELIST 


I  saw  him  on  his  couch  of  pain, 

And  when  I  heard  him  speak, 
It  was  of  Hope,  long  nursed  in  vain, 

And  tears  stole  down  his  cheek. 
He  spoke  of  honors  early  won, 

Which  youth  could  rarely  boast, 
Of  high  endeavors  well  begun 

But  prematurely  lost. 


HUS  sang  Thomas  Haynes  Bayly,  the  inti- 
mate literary  friend  of  Hood,  Rogers  and 
Moore,  and  the  devoted  friend  and  admirer  of  Banim. 
The  historic  old  town  of  Kilkenny,  on  the  banks  of 
the  Nore,  gave  birth  to  the  subject  of  this  sketch  on 
the  3d  of  April,  1798.  His  father,  Michael  Banim, 
was  a  trader,  fond  of  field  sports  and  possessing  more 
than  an  ordinary  share  of  common  sense  and  educa- 
tion. His  mother,  a  woman  of  excellent  qualities 
both  of  head  and  heart,  was  named  Carroll,  and 
descended  from  a  family  of  respectability  and  marked 
refinement.  Michael,  her  eldest  son,  has  left  us  a 
faithful  portrait  of  her  in  Rose  Brady,  the  heroine  of 
the  "  Ghost  Hunter,"  and  John  inherited  many  of 

her  best  qualities,  as  he  did  also  her  latent  talents. 

(79) 


80 


IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 


Latent,   indeed,   and   undeveloped;    for   in   Ireland 
during  those  "  dark  and  evil  days,  " 

Full  many  a  flower  was  born  to  blush  unseen 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

How  could  it  be  otherwise?     The  wonder  is,  how 
that  dear  old  Isle  of  Sage  and  Saint  could  have  pro- 


duced  such  an  incomparable  array  of  literary  lights, 
while  oppressed  by  the  incubus  of  coercion — while 
her  noblest  sons  were  being  forced  by  brutal  British 
barbarity  into  exile,  or  sacrificed  to  the  Moloch  of 
British  rule.  But  produce  them  she  did,  in  spite  of 


JOHN  BANIM.  81 

all  the  discouraging  circumstances;  and  the  struggles, 
trials  and  tribulations  of  her  Swifts,  Moores,  Griffins 
and  Goldsmiths  were  equalled  only  by  their  fame. 

Speaking  of  his  mother,  Banim  says  :  "She  pos- 
sessed a  mind  of  a  very  superior  order,  and  a  store  of 
good  sense  and  womanly,  wifely  patience;  and  these, 
with  trust  in  Heaven,  were  her  only  marriage  portion." 
These  qualities  her  second  son,  John,  possessed  in 
an  eminent  degree,  and  they  were  the  mainspring  of 
his  success. 

Having  entered  the  English  academy  of  his  native 
town,  where  Mr.  Chas.  James  Buchanan  ruled  with 
all  the  pomp  and  authority  of  the  schoolmaster  men- 
tioned in  the  "  Deserted  Village,"  the  future  author 
of  the  "O'Hara  Family"  picked  up  the  rudiments, 
and  was  soon  promoted  to  a  seminary  presided  over 
by  the  learned  Father  Magrath,  a  gentleman  of 
acknowledged  ability  in  teaching  young  ideas  how 
to  shoot.  Like  many  other  boys  whom  we  remem- 
ber well,  John  was  wont  to  play  truant  in  the  cool 
recesses  of  a  ruined  monastery,  or  in  the  delightful 
umbrage  of  a  spreading  hawthorn,  where  he  would 
pore  for  hours  over  a  volume  of  fairy  lore,  or  con 
with  avidity  such  magazines  as  came  into  his  posses- 
sion. The  literary  faculty  manifested  itself  in  him 
at  even  a  more  tender  age  than  it  did  in  Pope ;  and 
when  he  reached  his  tenth  year  his  manuscript 

7 


82  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

poems  and  romances  were  very  considerable.  Like 
all  young  literary  aspirants  who  feel  the  divinus 
sufflatus  within  them,  he  idolized  men  who  had  dis- 
tinguished themselves  in  the  arena  of  authorship; 
and  when  his  arch  idol,  Tom  Moore,  came  to  Kil- 
kenny, rolling  up  his  bundles  of  manuscript,  young 
John  Banim  went  to  visit  the  unrivalled  melodist, 
showed  the  productions  of  his  young  muse,  and  had 
the  satisfaction  of  being  called  "  brother  poet "  by 
the  greatest  lyrist  that  the  world  saw  since  the  days 
of  Horace. 

Whilst  at  the  Kilkenny  College  the  young  poet 
manifested  and  developed  quite  a  talent  for  drawing 
and  landscape  painting;  and,  having  selected  the 
artist's  profession,  was  transferred  to  the  Academy 
of  the  Royal  Irish  Society,  Dublin.  He  obtained 
the  first  prize  for  drawing  at  this  academy,  and  was 
equally  distinguished  for  his  industry  and  regularity 
during  the  two  years  of  pupilage  in  the  metropolis 
of  his  native  land.  One  of  his  letters  to  his  mother 
during  this  period  shows  at  the  same  time  his  filial 
attachment,  his  abiding  trust  in  Providence,  and  the 
hope,  which  then  buoyed  his  heart,  of  one  day 
"  tracing  the  footsteps  "'of  eminent  painters: — 

"  MY  DEAR  MOTHER. — Your  anxious  love  could  not  wish  me 
better  than  I  am,  or  with  better  prospects  before  me.  I  have 
the  countenance  of  all,  and  the  friendship  of  many  of  the  first 
artists  and  amateurs  in  my  profession.  I  meet  with  warm 
encouragement  and  hope  of  success  from  everyone". " 


JOHN   BANIM.  83 

In  a  letter  written  to  his  father,  Christmas  Day, 
1813,  he  says:  "  There  is  nothing  in  the  intercourse 
with  strangers  to  compensate  one  for  the  absence  of 
kindred;  but  I  must  not  murmur  against  what  can- 
not be  avoided.  The  festival  of  Christmas  reminds 
me  that  I  am  desolate.  There  is  no  equivalent  for 
the  peace  and  blessings  I  have  hitherto  enjoyed  at 
our  Christmas  hearth."  Poor  Banim  gave  expres- 
sion then  to  the  feelings  of  many  an  exiled  Celt,  who 
yearned  for  the  "  Christmas  hearth,"  at  home. 

After  two  years  of  separation,  the  artist  of  eight- 
een summers  returned  to  the  old  hearth-stone,  and 
was  fortunate  in  securing  a  lucrative  situation  as 
teacher  of  drawing  in  one  of  the  boarding-schools  of 
his  native  city.  And  now  the  old  drama  in  which 
the  poet-painter  was  to  take  his  part  was  enacted 

anew.  Annie  D ,  a  boarder  in  the  academy 

where  he  professed  drawing,  was,  we  are  told,  "  fair, 
bright-eyed,  full  of  the  fresh  beauty  of  seventeen, 
artless,  innocent  tand  pure-minded."  Her  teacher, 
only  one  year  her  senior,  forgot  the  grave  moral  of 
the  history  of  the  tutor  Abelard  and  the  pupil  Eloise; 
and,  day  after  day,  a  deep  ardent  passion  grew 
within  his  breast  and  ripened  into  a  love  strong  and 
abiding,  which  on  the  part  of  Annie  was  recipro- 
cated. Many  a  sunny  morn  and  dewy  eve  saw  the 
young  artist  and  his  plighted  Annie,  as  they  went 
their  way  to  the  favorite  trysting  place  on  the  flowery 


84  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

banks  of  the  Nore,  ostensibly  for  the  purpose  of 
sketching  landscape  views,  but  in  reality  to  talk  of 
love,  which  is  closely  connected  with,  and  always 
had  the  greatest  influence  on,  the  fine  arts  of  paint- 
ing and  poetry. 

Of  the  many  effusions  to  the  idol  of  his  heart, 
space  will  permit  us  to  select  only  one,  and  that 
must  be  very  short: 

I  thank  thee,  high  and  holy  pow'r, 

That  thus  upon  my  natal  hour, 
Thy  blessed  bounty  hath  bestowed 

More  than  to  mortal  life  is  owed. 

If  thy  dispensing  hand  had  given 
All  other  joys  this  side  of  heaven; 

The  monarch's  crown,  the  hero's  crest, 
All  honors,  riches,  powers,  the  best, 

And  Anna's  love,  away  the  while, 
I'd  change  them  all  for  Anna's  smile. 

Annie's  father,  a  country  squire,  hearing  of  his 
daughter's  attachment,  took  means' of  cutting  off  all 
communication  between  the  lovers;  but  "love  that 
laughs  at  locksmiths  "  soon  found  means  of  evading 
the  vigilance  of  the  squire,  and  correspondence  was 
kept  up  until  Annie  was  removed  from  the  boarding 
school  and  forced  to  return  the  miniature,  letters  and 
poems  of  her  lover.  The  poor  girl  brooded  over  the 
passion  of  her  heart  until  it  sapped  her  vitality, 


JOHN  BANIM.  85 

and,  as  her  father  was  unrelenting  in  his  determina- 
tion that  she  should  never  see  John  Banim,  she  died 
in  despair  and  of  a  broken  heart. 

Being  informed  of  Annie's  death  and  of  her 
fidelity  to  him  during  so  trying  and  painful  a  sepa- 
ration, the  noble-hearted  painter  was  inconsolable. 
Being  too  poor  to  hire  a  vehicle,  he  started  on  foot 
for  the  home  of  his  affianced,  some  twenty  miles 
distant.  It  was  a  cold,  rainy  November  day,  and 
when  he  reached  the  corpse  of  his  beloved  that  night 
he  felt  footsore,  weary  and  wet.  Entering  the  house 
he  gazed  silently  on  the  pallid  cheek  and  shrunken 
form  which  once  seemed  so  beautiful  to  him.  That 
warm  heart  and  lively,  laughing  eye  were  now  stilled 
in  death.  The  agony  which  his  features  betrayed,  as 
he  stood  there  beside  the  bier,  attracted  attention,  and 
revealed  the  lover  of  the  deceased  girl.  Her  sister,  re- 
cognizing Banim,  rudely  ordered  him  from  the  house. 
He  retired  to  an  outhouse,  where  he  fell  into  a  dreamy 
stupor,  which  lasted  until  the  funeral  cortege  was 
formed  next  morning.  He  had  not  tasted  a  morsel 
since  the  preceding  morning;  but  grief  had  banished 
all  cravings  of  hunger,  and  he  only  looked  for  the 
privilege  of  seeing  his  Annie  once  more  before  the 
coffin-lid  closed  forever  on  her  cherished  form.  He 
followed  the  hearse  to  the  churchyard,  saw  the  last 
sod  placed  over  her  grave,  and  then,  the  mourners 
having  departed,  cast  himself  almost  unconscious  on 


86  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

the  mound  that  marked  the  final  resting-place  of  all 
that  was  dearest  to  him  on  earth.  How  long  he 
remained  in  this  position  no  one  knows.  Next  day 
his  brother  found  him  some  distance  from  Kilkenny, 
in  a  half  conscious  state,  and  prostrate,  almost,  in 
body  and  mind.  The  stamina  of  life  was  buried 
with  his  first  love,  ambition  fled,  and  his  taste  for 
literature  and  painting  lay  dormant  for  a  long  time. 

After  a  year  of  prostration  and  pain,  Banim's 
health  returned,  and  with  it  his  love  of  literature. 
Like  Gerald  Griffin,  he  first  became  a  contributor 
and  then  editor  of  a  local  newspaper,  the  Leinster 
Gazette.  Finding  this  position  ill  suited  to  his  taste 
and  independent  spirit,  he  moved  to  Dublin  in  1820, 
where  he  wrote  not  only  for  the  metropolitan  press, 
but  also  for  several  country  papers.  Here  he  became 
acquainted  with  Charles  Philips,  the  poet  and  orator, 
who  had  then  published  his  poem  entitled  "The 
Emerald  Isle,"  also  with  Shiel,  William  Curran  and 
Lord  Cloncurry.  To  the  latter  he  dedicated  his  first 
long  poem,  "The  Celt's  Paradise/'  for  which  he 
obtained  £20  from  Warren,  the  publisher,  of  Bond 
street,  London. 

This  successful  adventure  in  the  region  of  litera- 
ture prompted  the  young  artist,  like  Lover  and 
Hazlitt,  to  relinquish  the  brush  for  a  mightier 
instrument,  and  to  launch  into  the  literary  ocean. 
At  his  very  outset  he  wrote  the  tragedy,  "  Damon 


JOHN  BANIM.  87 


and  Pythias,  "  which  his  fellow-countryman,  Mac- 
ready,  the  "  reformer  of  the  stage,"  produced  at 
Covent  Garden  Theatre  in  May,  1821.  This  being  a 
complete  success,  like  Lord  Byron,  Banim  might 
have  said:  "  I  rose  next  morning  a  famous  man." 
In  London  he  conceived  the  idea  of  rivalling  Scott 
as  a  novelist,  and  for  that  purpose  entered  into 
partnership  with  his  brother  Michael,  to  whom  he 
wrote  the  following  instructive  letter,  which  we  give 
here,  hoping  it  may  be  of  some  value  to  the  young 
readers  who  aspire  to  literary  distinction: 

"LONDON,  May  2d,  1824. 

"  MY  DEAR  MICHAEL  —  I  have  read  attentively,  and  with  the 
greatest  pleasure,  the  portion  of  the  tale  you  sent  me  by 
J.  H  -  .  So  far  as  it  goes,  I  pronounce  that  you  have  been 
successful.  Two  of  the  personages  do  not  stand  out  sufficiently 
from  the  canvas.  Aim  at  distinctness  and  at  individuality  of 
character.  Open  Shakespeare,  and  read  a  play  of  his;  then 
turn  to  the  list  of  dramatis  personae  and  see  and  feel  what  he 
has  done  in  this  way. 

"  Of  a  dozen  characters,  each  is  himself  alone.  Look  about 
you;  bring  to  mind  the  persons  you  have  known;  call  them  up 
before  you;  select  and  copy  them.  Never  give  a  person  an 
action  to  do  who  is  not  a  legible  individual.  Make  that  a  rule, 
and  I  think  it  ought  to  be  a  primary  rule  with  novel  writers. 

"  Suppose  one  was  to  get  a  sheet  of  paper,  draw  up  thereon  a 
list  of  persons,  and  after  their  names  write  down  what  kind  of 
human  beings  they  shall  be,  leaving  no  two  alike,  and  not  one 
generalized  or  undrawn.  After  Shakespeare,  Scott  is  the  great 
master-hand  of  character,  and  hence,  one  of  his  sources  of  great 


88  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

power.  To  show  you  clearly  what  I  mean,  not  a  creature  we 
ever  met  in  our  father's  penetralia  resembled  the  other.  There 
might  be  somewhat  of  a  conventional,  outward  similarity, 
arising  from  their  pursuits,  habits  and  amusements  being 
similar;  but  each  was,  notwithstanding,  distinct. 

"  I  think  that,  in  writing  a  tale,  every  character  in  it  should 
be  drawn  from  nature.  It  is  impossible  all  should  be  absolute 
originals.  Human  nature  being  the  same  in  all  ages,  and  in  all 
climes,  it  cannot  be  hoped,  now-a-days,  that  a  writer  can  be  the 
discoverer  of  new  character.  It  cannot  be  no  more  than  the 
same  dough,  somewhat  differently  shaped.  Habits  of  country, 
habits  of  station,  habits  of  any  kind,  will  diversify;  but  human 
nature  is  the  same  now  as  it  ever  was.  I  say  one  can  scarcely 
draw  an  original  character;  but  I  say,  draw  like  nature — no 
matter  what  kind  of  nature  you  draw  from — provided  that  the 
likeness  be  not  that  of  a  disgusting  object.  After  all,  there  is 
nothing  commonplace  in  nature. 

"  Get  fourteen  or  fifteen  of  any  of  the  persons  you  ever  knew, 
put  them  into  scenes  favorable  to  their  peculiarities — their 
individualities  can  be  exemplified  without  straining  after  the 
point;  in  proper  situations  set  them  talking  for  themselves;  by 
their  own  word  of  mouth  they  will  denote  their  own  characters 
better  than  any  description  from  pen.  Thus  will  you  dramatize 
your  tale,  and  faithful  drama  is  the  life  and  soul  of  novel- 
writing.  Plot  is  an  inferior  consideration  to  drama,  though 
still  it  is  a  main  consideration. 

' '  A  few  words  more  as  to  the  mode  of  studying  the  art  of 
novel- writing.  Kead  any  first-rate  production  of  the  kind, 
with  a  note-book.  When  an  author  forces  you  to  feel  with  him, 
or  whenever  he  produces  a  more  than  ordinary  degree  of  pleas- 
ure, or  when  he  startles  you,  stop  and  try  to  find  out  how  he 


JOHN   BANIM.  89 

has  done  it;  see  if  it  be  by  dialogue  or  by  picture,  or  by  descrip- 
tion, or  by  action.  Fully  comprehend  his  method,  his  means 
for  the  effect,  and  note  it  down.  Write  down  all  such  impres- 
sions. Enumerate  these  and  see  how  many  go  to  make  the 
combined  interest  of  one  book.  Observe,  by  contrasting  char- 
acters, how  he  keeps  up  the  balance  of  the  familiar  and  the 
marvelous,  humorous,  serious  and  romantic. 

"  This  would  not  be  imitation,  it  would  be  study — what,  I 
will  venture  to  say,  great  men  have  done  with  their  prede- 
cessors; what  painters  do  in  the  study  of  their  art." 

"Tales  by  the  O'Hara  Family  "  appeared  in  April, 
1825,  and  their  success  was  wonderful.  The  Press 
said  they  were  admirably  written;  the  critics  that 
they  were  well  written.  Griffin,  a  book  critic  himself, 
wrote  of  these  tales:  "  I  think  them  most  vigorous 
and  original  things;  overflowing  with  the  very  spirit 
of  poetry,  passion  and  painting.  Nothing  since 
Scott's  first  novels  has  equalled  them."  For  these 
tales,  the  joint  production  of  the  Banim  brothers, 
they  were  well  paid,  and  the  inducements  were  so 
flattering  that  John  soon  after  sent  to  the  Press 
"  The  Bo}Tne  Water,"  a  work  of  three  volumes,  the 
sale  of  which  was  exceptionally  great.  John's 
trenchant  pen,  made  smooth  by  the  oil  of  his  vigor- 
ous imagination  and  fed  from  the  exhaustless  stores  of 
his  knowledge,  was  incessantly  at  work  in  the  field  of 
fiction.  Well  has  it  been  said: 


90  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Morning  saw  him  at  his  folios, 
Twilight  saw  his  fingers  run, 
Laboring  ever,  weary  never 
Of  the  work  he  had  begun. 

But  this  application,  for  which  Banim  was  so 
remarkable,  eventually  sapped  his  by  no  means 
robust  constitution,  and  he  was  obliged  to  seek 
relaxation  and  health  in  Boulogne  where  embarrass- 
ments of  a  pecuniary  complexion  soon  stared  him 
in  the  face,  and  his  only  consolation  consisted  in  the 
remembrance  of  happier  times  and  things.  From 
these  embarassments  he  was,  however,  soon  relieved 
by  the  generosity  of  his  admiring  countrymen. 

A  laudable  movement  was  set  on  foot  by  his 
friend  Mr.  Sterling,  who,  writing  in  the  London 
TimeSj  of  which  papier  he  was  editor,  made  a  bril- 
liant and  truthful  appeal  on  behalf  of  his  sick  and 
suffering  friend.  The  appeal  was  supported  by  other 
journals,  and  Banim  expressed  his  gratitude  in  a 
letter  to  the  editor  of  the  Times.  On  this  occasion, 
as  on  every  other,  the  Irish  people  were  not  appealed 
to  in  vain,  and  the  handsome  amount  realized  was 
a  pleasing  testimonial  to  the  sick  man  of  the  appre- 
ciation and  love  in  which  he  was  held  by  them. 
Prominent  in  the  subscription  list  were  the  names 
of  Earl  Grey,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  Richard  Lalor  Sheil 
and  Samuel  Lover.  This  pecuniary  assistance  ena- 
bled the  invalid  author  to  pay  off  all  the  debts  he 


JOHN   BANIM.  91 

had  unavoidably  contracted,  and  to  remain  on  the 
Continent  for  two  years  for  the  benefit  of  his  health. 
But,  alas,  poor  Banim !  he  reaped  no  advantage  what- 
ever from  his  sojourn  in  Paris  and  Boulogne.  His 
complaint  (disease  of  the  spine)  was,  by  eminent 
Parisian  physicians,  pronounced  to  be  incurable; 
and  thus  bereft  of  all  hope  he  had  but  one  wish,  to 
pass  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  his  native  land, 
where  the  kind  and  affectionate  sympathy  of  rela- 
tives and  friends  "  might  gently  slope  his  pathway  to 
the  grave";  and,  accordingly,  in  answer  to  the  urgent 
solicitation  of  his  brother,  he  prepared  to  return 
home.  In  a  reply  he  wrote  to  Michael,  previous  to 
setting  out,  he  enclosed  a  poem,  a  few  stanzas  of 
which  we  cannot  refrain  from  quoting,  as  they  show 
the  affectionate  longing  which  filled  his  heart  to  reach 
once  more  the  happy  scenes  of  his  childhood.  It  is 
entitled 

THE  CALL  FROM  HOME. 

From  home  and  hearth  and  garden  it  resounds 
From  chamber  stairs,  and  all  the  old  house  bounds, 
And  from  our  boyhood's  old  playgrounds. 
****,* 

Brother,  I  come;  you  summon  and  I  come; 
From  love  like  yours  I  never  more  may  roam — 
Yours  is  the  call  from  brother  and  from  home. 

Reaching  London  he  rested  there  some  days,  during 
which  time  he  was  visited  bv  manv  old  familiar 


92  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

friends,  foremost  among  whom  was  his  ardent  ad- 
mirer, Thomas  Haynes  Bayly,  who  was  sorely 
afflicted  at  seeing  the  gifted  Banim  thus  prostrated 
by  sickness.  The  feeling  of  his  heart  on  this  occa- 
sion found  expression  in  a  poem,  a  stanza  of  which 
prefaces  this  article. 

Quitting  London  for  ever  he  arrived  in  Dublin  at 
the  close  of  July,  1835;  here  Michael  met  him  after 
a  separation  of  thirteen  years.  This  meeting  between 
the  two  brothers  was  a  very  affecting  one.  We  will 
let  Michael  tell  it  in  his  own  words:  "  I  entered  his 
room  unannounced.  I  found  him  laid  listlessly  on 
a  sofa,  his  useless  limbs  at  full  length,  and  his  sunken 
cheeks  resting  on  his  pillow.  I  could  not  at  once 
recognize  the  companion  of  my  boyhood  in  the  rem- 
nant I  now  beheld.  I  had  been  prepared  to  meet  a 
change,  but  not  such  a  change  as  was  now  apparent, 
for  I  looked  down  on  a  meagre,  attenuated,  almost 
white-headed  old  man.  We  were  not  long,  however, 
recognizing  each  other  and  renewing  our  old  love." 
In  Dublin,  as  in  London,  old  and  new  friends  gath- 
ered around  Banim,  and  among  these  the  Viceroy, 
the  Earl  of  Musgrave,  was  most  attentive  and  thought- 
ful in  his  endeavors  to  aid  the  poor,  broken  sufferer. 
As  a  graceful  means  of  increasing  his  resources  there 
was  opened  for  him  on  July  21st  a  benefit  at  the 
Theatre  Royal,  Hawkins  street,  under  the  immediate 
patronage  of  the  Lord  Lieutenant;  and  we  are  told 


JOHN   BANIM.  93 

by  the  Morning  Register  of  the  following  day  that 
persons  of  high  and  worthy  names  occupied  the  pri- 
vate boxes.  The  affair  was  in  every  sense  a  complete 
success.  Early  in  the  month  of  September  Banim 
went  back  to  his  longed-for  home.  On  his  arrival  in 
Kilkenny  his  fellow-townsmen  received  him  with 
open  arms,  and  presented  him  with  an  address 
expressive  of  the  pleasure  they  experienced  in  wel- 
coming back  to  his  native  town  one  whose  talents 
and  worth  reflected  such  credit  upon  all  Ireland. 
Accompanying  the  address  was  a  small  silver  snuff 
box  containing  a  subscription  of  £85. 

Banim  replied  in  words  brimful  of  warm  affection 
and  ardent  patriotism.  Thus  was  Banim  received 
by  his  admiring  countrymen. 

Space  will  not  permit  us  to  give  a  detailed  account 
of  the  events  of  the  last  seven  years  of  his  life;  suf- 
fice it  to  say  that  during  that  time,  though  suffering 
the  most  acute  pains,  he  always  displayed  a  fortitude 
and  cheerfulness  of  spirits  which,  in  the  circum- 
stances, was  truly  commendable.  Before  he  had 
been  a  year  at  home  Queen  Victoria  bestowed  a  pen- 
sion on  him  of  £150  a  year. 

Never  was  the  royal  bounty  more  needed  or  more 
truly  deserved;  for  this  boon  he  was  indebted  to  the 
Earl  of  Carlisle,  aided  by  his  early  friend  Richard 
Lalor  Shiel.  The  nobleman  often  visited  Banim, 
and  was  very  much  attracted  by  his  little  daughter, 


y4  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

then  twelve  years  of  age.  Knowing  her  father's 
anxiety  on  her  account,  he  obtained  an  additional 
pension  of  £40  for  her  benefit.  Gerald  Griffin,  who 
was  Banim's  life-long  friend,  often  visited  him  in  his 
home  by  the  Nore  during  his  illness,  and  spent  many 
a  pleasant  hour  talking  with  the  novelist  on  literary 
topics.  These  two  gifted  authors  in  some  respects 
resembled  one  another,  not  so  much  in  their  works 
as  in  the  interior  sentiments  which  permeate  as  an 
atmosphere  their  writings,  aims  and  aspirations. 
Some  writers  there  are,  who,  when  we  read  their 
works,  awaken  in  us  a  sentiment  of  admiration, 
while  others  elicit  our  esteem  and  love.  In  the  latter 
category  we  must  place  John  Banim  and  Gerald 
Griffin;  and  the  perpetuity  of  their  fame  is,  and,  no 
doubt  will  ever  be  due  to  this  benign  and  salutary 
influence  which  they  exercise  on  the  minds  of  their 
readers. 

Seven  years  had  now  passed  since  Banim's  return 
to  his  Irish  home.  The  malignant  complaint  to 
which  he  was  a  victim  had  much  impaired  his  bodily 
strength,  but  the  will  and  intellect  remained  as 
indomitable  as  ever  until  the  month  of  June,  1842, 
when  even  these  gave  signs  of  waning;  and  late  in 
the  following  month  his  brother  Michael  was  sud- 
denly summoned  to  his  death-bed.  John  was  barely 
able  to  recognize  him.  Taking  his  hand,  he  gave 
one  fond  long  look  into  his  face,  and  then  with  a 


JOHN  BANIM.  95 

smile  upon  his  pallid  countenance,  calmly  and  quietly 
passed  away. 

He  lies  buried  in  the  graveyard  of  the  Catholic 
chapel  of  St.  John,  Kilkenny,  by  the  side  of  his 
mother,  whom  he  loved  with  such  filial  affection  - 
He  left  f  surviving  him  his  widow  and  an  only 
daughter,  Mary,  whom  we  had  occasion  to  allude  to 
above.  This  child,  after  her  father's  death,  was 
placed  in  a  convent  school  at  Waterford,  under  the 
special  care  of  the  sister  of  Richard  Lalor  Shiel — 
this  distinguished  Irishman  being  one  of  her  guar- 
dians. 

She  was  then  a  very  lovely  girl,  full  of  talent,  full  of 
endearing  affection,  and  gave  promise  of  doing  credit 
to  her  father's  name.  But,  alas!  in  February,  1844, 
she  showed  symptoms  of  chest  disease,  which  were 
at  first  thought  lightly  of,  but  which  soon  took  the 
form  of  that  insidious  disease,  consumption,  which 
has  no  pity  for  "  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair."  In  the 
June  following  she  fell  a  victim  to  it  in  the  eight- 
eenth year  of  her  age,  and  her  coffin  was  placed  on 
the  yet  sound  timber  encasing  her  father's  remains. 

On  the  death  of  John  Banim's  daughter,  Sir  Rob- 
ert Peel  performed  one  of  those  acts  which,  whether 
it  proceeded  from  feelings  or  policy,  was  none  the  less 
praiseworthy.  At  the  solicitation  of  a  committee  of 
twenty-one  gentlemen  representing  all  shades  of 
political  opinion,  he  placed  Mrs.  Banim  on  the 


IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 


pension  list.  Among  the  distinguished  men  who  took 
up  Mrs.  Banim's  case  we  notice  the  names  of  Daniel 
O'Connell,  Smith  O'Brien,  Isaac  Butt,  Charles  Lever, 
Thomas  Davis,  William  Carleton,  Charles  Gavan 
Duffy,  Thomas  MacNevin,  and  others. 

We  desire,  ere  closing,  to  say  a  few  words  about 
John  Banim's  writings.  By  himself,  as  well  as  in 
conjunction  with  his  brother,  he  wrote  much.  His 
principal  works  were  "  Tales  by  the  O'Hara  Family," 
11  The  Peep  o'  Day,"  "The  Denounced;  or  the  Last 
Baron  of  Crana,"  "The  Conformist"  and  •'  The  Boyne 
Water."  Especially  on  those  mentioned  will  his  fame 
as  a  novelist  rest.  In  them  he  has  portrayed  his 
country  in  the  colors  of  truth;  delineated  without 
concealment  or  exaggeration  its  national  character; 
sketched  its  peasantry  as  they  really  are,  blending 
the  charms  of  truth  with  the  creations  of  a  powerful 
fancy,  and  directing  all  to  the  noble  purpose  of  ele- 
vating the  national  character,  and  vindicating  a  too 
long  neglected  and  oppressed  land.  In  this  Banim 
has  shown  himself  a  benefactor  of  his  country,  and 
for  this  very  reason  his  name  and  fame  shall  live  in 
the  memory  of  his  countrymen  as  long  as  gratitude 
and  love  are  ranked  as  virtues  among  men.  His 
poems,  though  few,  are  worthy  of  his  genius. 

The  following  paragraph,  which  refers  in  compli- 
mentary terms  to  Duffy's  collection  of  Irish  ballads 
in  general,  and  to  our  author's  "Soggarth  Aroan  "  in 


JOHN   BANIM.  97 

particular,  is  taken  from  Cockburn's    "  Life  of  Lord 
Jeffrey": 

' '  I  read  a  very  interesting  little  volume  of  '  Irish  Ballad 
Poetry/  published  by  that  poor  Duffy  of  the  Nation,  who  died 
so  prematurely  the  other  day.  There  are  some  most  pathetic, 
and  many  most  spirited,  pieces,  and  all,  with  scarcely  an  excep- 
tion, so  entirely  national.  Do  get  the  book  and  read  it.  I  am 
most  struck  with  '  Soggarth  Aroon,'  after  the  two  first  stanzas; 
and  a  long,  racy,  authentic,  sounding  dirge  for  the  Tyrconnel 
Princes.  But  you  had  better  begin  with  '  The  Irish  Emigrant ' 
and  '  The  Girl  of  Loch  Dan/  which  immediately  follows,  which 
will  break  ^ou  in  more  gently  to  the  wilder  and  more  impas- 
sioned parts.  It  was  published  in  1845,  and  as  a  part  of 
'Duffy's  Library  of  Ireland.'  You  see  what  a  helpless  victim 
I  still  am  to  these  enchanters  of  the  lyre.  I  did  not  mean  to 
say  but  a  word  of  this  book,  and  here  I  am  furnishing  you  with 
extracts.  But  God  bless  all  poets !  and  you  will  not  grudge  them 
a  share  even  of  your  Sunday  benedictions." 

This  is  an  excerpt  from  a  letter  written  by  the 
great  reviewer  to  Mrs.  Empson. 

SOGGARTH  AROON. 

AM  I  the  slave  they  say, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ? 
Since  you  did  show  the  way, 

Soggarth  Aroon, 
Their  slave  no  more  to  be 
While  they  would  work  with  me 
Ould  Ireland's  slavery, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ? 

8 


IBISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Why  not  her  poorest  man, 

Soggarth  Aroon, 
Try  and  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  Aroon, 
Her  commands  to  fulfil 
Of  his  own  heart  and  will 
Side  by  side  with  you  still 

Soggarth  Aroon  ? 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  Aroon, 
Yet  be  no  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  Aroon, — 
Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you — 
Stand  up  so  near  to  you — 
Och!  out  of  fear  to  you! 

Soggarth  Aroon ! 

Who,  in  the  winter's  night, 

Soggarth  Aroon, 
When  the  could  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  Aroon, 
Came  to  my  cabin-door, 
And,  on  my  earthen-flure, 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  "and  poor, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ? 

Who,  on  the  marriage-day, 

Soggarth  Aroon, 
Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  Aroon — 


JOHN  BANIM. 

And  did  both  laugh  and  sing 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring, 
At  the  poor  christening, 
Soggarth  Aroon  ? 

Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  Aroon, 
Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  Aroon? 
And  when  iny  hearth  was  dim, 
Gave,  while  his  eyes  did  brim, 
What  I  should  give  to  him, 

Soggarth  Aroon  ? 

Och!  you,  and  only  you, 

Soggarth  Aroon! 
And  for  this  I  was  true  to  you, 

Soggarth  Aroon; 
In  love  they'll  never  shake, 
When  for  ould  Ireland's  sake 
We  a  true  part  did  take, 

Soggarth  Aroon! 

HE  SAID  THAT  HE  WAS  NOT  OUR  BROTHER.* 

HE  said  that  he  was  not  our  brother — 

The  mongrel !  he  said  what  he  knew — 
No,  Eire!  our  dear  Island-mother, 

He  ne'er  had  his  black  blood  from  you ! 
And  what  though  the  milk  of  your  bosom 

Gave  vigor  and  health  to  his  veins — 
He  zvas  but  a  foul  foreign  blossom 

Blown  hither  to  poison  our  plains ! 
*  The  Duke  of  Wellington. 


100  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

He  said  that  the  sword  had  enslaved  us — 

That  still  at  its  point  we  must  kneel, 
The  liar! — though  often  it  braved  us, 

We  cross'd  it  with  hardier  steel! 
This  witness,  his  Richard — our  vassal! 

His  Essex — whose  plumes  we  trod  down! 
His  Willy — whose  peerless  sword-tassel 

We  tarnish'd  at  Limerick  town! 

No!  falsehood  and  feud  were  our  evils, 

While  force  not  a  fetter  could  twine — 
Come  Northmen, — come  Normans,— come  Devils! 

We  gave  them  our  Sparth  to  the  chine ! 
And  if  once  again  he  would  try  us, 

To  the  music  of  trumpet  and  drum, 
And  no  traitor  among  us  or  nigh  us — 

Let  him  come,  the  Brigand!  let  him  come! 

AILLEEN. 

'Tis  not  for  love  of  gold  I  go, 

'Tis  not  for  love  of  fame; 
Though  fortune  should  her  smile  bestow, 

And  I  may  win  a  name, 

Ailleen, 

And  I  may  win  a  name. 

And  yet  it  is  for  gold  I  go, 

And  yet  it  is  for  fame, 
That  they  may  deck  another  brow, 

And  bless  another  name, 

Ailleen, 

And  bless  another  name. 


JOHN   BANIM.  101 


For  this,  but  this,  I  go— for  this 

I  lose  thy  love  awhile ; 
And  all  the  soft  and  quiet  bliss 

Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile, 
Ailleen, 

Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile. 

And  I  go  to  brave  a  world  I  hate, 

And  woo  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  tempt  a  wave,  and  try  a  fate 

Upon  a  stranger  shore, 

Ailleen, 

Upon  a  stranger  shore. 

Oh,  when  the  bays  are  all  my  own, 

I  know  a  heart  will  care ! 
Oh,  when  the  gold  is  wooed  and  won, 

I  now  a  brow  shall  wear, 

Ailleen, 

I  know  a  brow  shall  wear! 

And  when  with  both  returned  again, 

My  native  land  to  see, 
I  know  a  smile  will  meet  me  there, 

And  a  hand  will  welcome  me, 
Ailleen, 

And  a  hand  will  welcome  me ! 


102  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 


THE  IRISH  MAIDEN'S  SONG. 

You  know  it,  now — it  is  be  tray  'd 

This  moment,  in  mine  eye — 
And  in  my  young  cheek's  crimson  shade, 

And  in  my  whisper'd  sigh. 
You  know,  now — yet  listen,  now — 

Though  ne'er  was  heart  more  true, 
My  plight  and  troth,  and  virgin  vow, 

Still,  still  I  keep  from  you, 

Ever — 

Ever,  until  a  proof  you  give 

How  oft  you've  heard  me  say 
I  would  not  even  his  empress  live, 

Who  idles  life  away, 
Without  one  effort  for  the  land 

In  which  my  fathers'  graves 
Were  hollow'd  by  a  despot  hand 

To  darkly  close  on  slaves — 

Never! 

See!  round  yourself  the  shackles  hang, 

Yet  come  you  to  love's  bowers, 
That  only  he  may  soothe  their  pang, 

Or  hide  their  sting  in  flowers. 
But  try  all  things  to  snap  them,  first, 

And  should  all  fail,  when  tried, 
The  fated  chain  you  cannot  burst 

My  twining  arms  shall  hide, 

Ever. 


REV.  CHARLES  P.  MEEHAN, 

PRIEST   AND    HISTORIAN. 

IN  the  columns  of  the  Dublin  Nation  for  October 
29th,  1842,  there  appeared  a  paragraph  among 
answers  to  correspondents  which  read  thus: 

"  Clericus,  who  offers  us  the  option  of  inserting  or  burning 
his  verses,  does  himself  an  injustice.  They  are  most  admirable, 
and  will  appear  in  our  next  number. " 

The  verses  alluded  to  by  the  editor  of  the  Nation 
were  written  by  the  subject  of  this  biographical 
sketch,  and  appeared  according  to  promise  on 
November  5th,  in  the  Poet's  Corner,  under  the 
title  of 

BOYHOOD'S  YEARS. 

AH!  why  should  I  recall  them — the  gay,  the  joyous  years, 
Ere  hope  was  cross'd  or  pleasure  dimm'd  by  sorrow  and  by  tears  ? 
Or  why  should  mem'ry  love  to  trace  youth's  glad  and  sunlit  way, 
When  those  who  made  its  charms  so  sweet  are  gather'd  to  decay  ? 
The  summer's  sun  shall  come  again  to  brighten  hill  and  tower — 
The  teeming  earth  its  fragrance  bring  beneath  the  balmy 

shower — 

But  all  in  vain  will  mem'ry  strive ;  in  vain  we  shed  our  tears — 
They're  gone  away  and  can't  return — the  friends  of  boyhood's 

years! 

Ah!  why  then  wake  my  sorrow,  and  bid  me  now  count  o'er 
The  vanished  friends  so  dearly  prized— the  days  to  come   no 

more — 

(103) 


104  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

The  happy  days  of  infancy,  when  no  guile  our  bosoms  knew, 
Nor  reck'd  we  of  the  pleasures  that  with  each  moment  flew  ? 
'Tis  all  in  vain  to  weep  for  them — the  past  a  dream  appears ; 
And  where  are  they — the   lov'd,   the  young,  the  friends  of 
boyhood's  years  ? 


Go,  seek  them  in  the  cold  churchyard— they  long  have  stoPn  to 

rest; 
But  do  not  weep,  for  their  young  cheeks  by  woe  were  ne'er 

oppress'd; 

Life's  sun  for  them  in  splendor  set — no  cloud  came  o'er  the  ray 
That  lit  them  from  this  gloomy  world  upon  their  joyous  way, 
No  tears  about  their  graves  be  shed — but  sweetest  flowers  be 

flung, 
The  fittest  offering  thou  canst  make   to  hearts  that  perish 

young— 
To  hearts  this  world  has  never  torn  with  racking  hopes  and 

fears; 
For  bless'd  are  they  who  pass  away  in  boyhood's  happy  years ! 


EEV.    C.    P.    MEEHAN.  105 

These  lines  need  no  comment;  they  speak  for 
themselves.  We  only  regret  that  he  has  not  written 
more  poetry.  For,  though  he  devoted  most  of  his 
time  to  prose  writing,  he  was  a  genuine  poet,  and 
would  have  found  the  ascent  to  Parnassus  both  easy 
and  pleasant.  If  he  has  not  contributed  largely  to 
the  poetic  literature  of  his  native  land,  however, 
he  has  assisted  very  materially,  and  encouraged  and 
inspired  many  of  those  whose  names  are  to-day  dear 
to  the  lovers  of  Irish  ballad-poetry.  He  was  the 
intimate  and  dearly -beloved  friend  of  Mangan  and 
McGee,  the  benefactor  of  "  Leo "  and  "  Caviare." 
McGee's  last  letter  was  written  to  Father  Meehan, 
the  friend  and  counsellor  of  his  youth.  With  all  the 
ardor  of  his  Catholic  heart  he  loved  the  patriotic 
priest  who  wrought  so  zealously  to  rescue  from 
oblivion  the  records  of  Erin's  elder  days. 

Mangan  this  good  priest  admired  and  consoled 
while  living,  and  defended  when  dead  from  the 
aspersions  of  his  enemies.  Poor  Mangan,  who  was, 
indeed,  a  veritable  poet — one  who  ranks  among  the 
best  of  his  time — dined  with  Father  Meehan  when- 
ever he  chose  to  do  so;  and  when  the  memory  of 
the  former  was  assailed  by  a  Dublin  essayist  about 
five  years  ago,  Father  Meehan  wrote  the  following 
letter  to  a  literary  friend: 

"  DEAR  FRIEND: — Let  me  tell  you  that  it  would  be  impossible 
to  find  here  a  single  being,  my  unfortunate  self  excepted,  who 


106  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

knew  Mangan  personally.  Poor  fellow!  he  did  occasionally 
take  what  he  ought  not  to  have  taken.  A  spoonful  of  wine  or 
whisky  upset  his  nervous  system. 

' '  Mangan,  be  his  faults  what  they  may  have  been,  was  a  pure 
man,  never  lowering  himself  to  ordinary  debaucheries  or  sen- 
suality of  any  sort.  He  prayed,  heard  Mass  almost  every  day, 
and  occasionally  knelt  at  the  altar  rail.  He  dined  with  me 
when  he  liked ;  and  I  never  heard  him  say  a  word  that  was  not 
worth  remembering." 

This  loyalty  to  the  " friend  of  his  early  days"  is 
much  to  be  admired.  Faithful  was  he  to  the 
memory  of  the  Young  Irelanders  unto  death.  Dur- 
ing the  Fenian  epoch,  he  was  the  patron  of  the 
short-lived  but  brilliant  lyrist,  John  K.  Casey,  who 
has  left  us  among  his  writings  a  poem  descriptive  of 
the  incident  which  led  Father  Meehan  to  write  his 
magnum  opus,  "The  Fate  and  Fortunes  of  the  Earls 
of  Tyrone  and  Tyrconnell." 

While  Father  Meehan  was  a  student  in  Rome  he 
happened  one  day  in  the  vicinity  of  St.  Isidore,  and 
there  discovered  the  final  resting  place  of  Hugh 
O'Neill  and  Rory  O'Donnell.  There  and  then  the 
gifted  Irish  Levite  commenced  those  researches  to 
which  the  literature  of  Ireland  owes  so  very  much. 

This  historical  episode  is  thus  woven  into  verse: 

'Twas  summer  time  long  years  ago, 

Where  shone  the  skies  of  Italy, 
And  Tiber's  waters  calmly  flow 

Far  westward  to  the  sun-lit  sea. 


REV.    C.    P.    MEEHAN.  107 

Amid  the  Roman  city's  crowd, 

Montorio's  arches  darkly  loom, 
And,  in  their  shade,  with  forehead  bowed, 

An  Irish  boy  knelt  by  a  tomb. 

He  read  the  names  above  the  clay: 

He  asked — ' '  What  led  their  footsteps  here 

From  Irish  hills  far,  far  away, 
To  find  an  exile's  lonely  bier?" 

"O  Pilgrim!  in  this  cold  clay  rest 

Two  chiefs  of  distant  Innisfail, 
O'Donnell,  of  the  peerless  crest, 

And  Ulster's  prince,  great  Hugh  O'Neill. 

"They  fled  their  land — then  all  is  dim; 

Their  after  fate  none  now  may  tell: 
They  faded  from  the  earth  s  wide  rim 

The  day  they  bade  their  homes  farewell." 

Up  rose  the  youth,  with  steady  eye 

And  heart  in  resolution  strong — 
He  prayed  a  prayer  to  God  on  high 

To  save  the  just  and  right  the  wrong. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Leaf  after  leaf,  as  years  passed  on, 

He  added  to  the  record  frail; 
Leaf  after  leaf,  till  years  were  gone 

With  Time's  swift  wing  to  fill  the  sail. 

Now — now  the  hope  's  fulfilled  at  last, 
The  path  is  traced— the  work  is  done; 

The  stars  shine  through  the  misty  past— 
The  fight  'gainst  darkness  fought  and  won. 


108  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

"Caviare,"  (John  Francis  O'Donnell)  also  was  a 
steadfast  admirer  of  our  gifted  author.  Among  the 
published  poems  of  that  talented  young  man,  who 
perished  all  too  soon  for  his  fame,  we  find  one 
entitled  "  Reminiscences  of  a  day  in  Wi.cklow,"  in 
which  Father  Meehan  is  thus  apostrophised: 

O,  friend  of  the  radiant,  lucent  mind 

And  boundless  charity  of  heart, 
As  through  the  hills  we  climb  and  wind, 

See  the  red  deer  leap  up  and  start 

Out  in  the  sun — that  we  mnst  part, 
Flings  sadness  on  this  tender  morn, 

A  lengthening  shadow  on  the  path 
That  flows  in  curious  maze  between 

The  wildwood  and  the  rath. 

The  author  of  these  lines  cast  into  verse  some  of 
the  striking  parts  of  Meehan's  "Rise  and  Fall  of  the 
Franciscan  Monasteries"  also,  and  furnished  the 
poem  which  we  find  at  the  end  of  our  subject's  chief 
work. 

Rev.  Charles  Patrick  Meehan  was  born  in  Dublin 
on  July  12th,  1812.  His  parents,  who  were  from 
Ballymeehan,  in  the  county  of  Leitrim,  were  so 
circumstanced  that  they  could  afford  to  give  the 
future  historian  the  best  education  then  going.  In 
his  boyhood  he  manifested  a  vocation  for  the  sacred 
ministry,  and  his  parents  sent  him  to  the  Irish 
College  at  Rome,  then  presided  over  by  the  learned 


KEY.    C.    P.    MEEHAN.  109 

Dr.  Christopher  Boylan.  During  his  eight  years' 
course  in  the  metropolis  of  the  Christian  world  he 
had  for  professors  such  eminent  and  renowned 
scholars  as  Perrone,  Manera  and  De  Vico.  The 
lectures  of  those  astute  professors  were  not  lost  to  the 
*  young  Irish  boy  who  noted  with  care  every  salient 
point  that  was  treated  in  the  course  of  their  delivery. 
His  ever  busy  and  inquiring  mind  sought  every 
source  of  knowledge  in  the  City  of  the  Tiber;  and 
even  in  Rome  he  was  considered  a  "  learned  youth." 
Ordained  in  1835,  Father  Meehan,  young,  active 
and  zealous,  returned  to  his  native  land.  His  first 
appointment  was  to  the  parish  of  Rath  drum,  in  the 
County  of  Wicklow,  where  he  devoted  his  leisure 
moments  to  the  patriotic  work  of  rescuing  the 
exploits  of  the  O'Tooles  and  O'Byrnes  from  the 
oblivion  into  which  they  were  fast  sinking.  At  the 
end  of  his  first  year  in  the  ministry  he  was  trans- 
ferred by  Archbishop  Murray  to  SS.  Michael  and 
John's,  Dublin,  where  he  remained  and  labored  for 
fifty-four  eventful  years.  The  period  of  his  appoint- 
ment to  a  curacy  in  his  native  city  is  remarkable  in 
the  annals  of  Irish  history.  The  tithe  question  was 
then  agitating  the  whole  nation,  from  Malin  to  the 
Dursey  Head.  O'Connell  was  at  the  meridian  of  his 
fame,  and  that  brilliant  band  of  poets  and  orators, 
who  a  decade  of  years  later  loomed  up  before  the 
world  as  the  Chiefs  of  the  "  Young  Ireland"  party 


110  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

were  cleaving  a  way  to  prominence  in  their  respec- 
tive localities.  It  was  the  formative  period  of  a  new 
era. 

"  In  Father  Meehan's  room/'  writes  the  reverend 
editor  of  the  Irish  Monthly,  "Clarence  Mangan,  Flor- 
ence MacCarthy  and  the  rest  often  gathered  to  spend 
the  evenings  together,  with  talk  as  a  chief  item  in 
the  entertainment — noctes  atticae — with  two  deriva- 
tions, classical  and  modern,  for  the  last  epithet." 

The  junior  curate  of  SS.  Michael  and  John's  had 
doubtless  been  among  the  most  eager  readers  of  the 
"Nation's  first  number,"  and  soon  his  ambition  might 
be  expressed  in  the  line  which  Goldsmith  once  so 
cleverly  turned  against  Johnson: 

' '  Forsitan  et  nostrum  nomen  miscebetur  istis. " 

His  name  was  soon  classed  with  "  Desmond," 
"TerraeFilius,"  "  Shamrock,"  '<  Slievegullion,"  and 
the  "Celt;"  and,  although  his  poems  are  few,  they 
are  of  such  high  merit  as  to  entitle  him  to  a  niche 
with  the  best  of  his  contemporaries. 

Though  closely  allied  to  the  editors  of  the  Nation 
and  in  full  sympathy  with  the  doctrines  of  the 
"Young  Ireland"  party,  only  three  of  his  poems 
appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  great  national  organ, 
"  Boyhood's  Years,"  "The  Fall  of  the  Leaves,"  and 


REV.    C.    P.    MEEHAN.  Ill 

THE  PATRIOT'S  WIFE. 

[There  is  a  tradition  amongst  the  Swiss  of  the  Canton  of  Uri  that  the 
wife  of  the  tyrant  Gesler,  disgusted  at  the  atrocities  perpetrated  by  her  hus- 
band, fled  from  him;  and  as  she  was  of  Swiss  extraction,  made  a  vow  never 
to  return  to  him.  The  tyrant,  however,  succeeded  in  capturing  her;  and  the 
following  verses  record  the  dialogue  which  is  often  repeated  by  the  Swiss 
hearth  when  the  peasant  recounts  to  his  children  the  glories  and  achieve- 
ments of  William  Tell.] 

How  changed  thou  art  since  last  we  met ! 

Thy  brow  is  wan — thy  smile  is  cold; 
Stern  grief  her  seal  has  on  thee  set — 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  wert  of  old! 

No  joy  now  flashes  from  that  eye 

Which  once  around  shed  charms  of  light; 

That  voice  once  sweet  can  now  but  sigh; 

Oh,  Heavens!  whence  came  this  sudden  blight! 

Say,  wilt  thou  tell? — Great  God!  how  strange 

That  beauty  thus  could  pass  away, 
And  mirth  to  deepest  sorrow  change 

More  quickly  than  the  tomb's  decay  5 

Yes;  tell  me  if  the  memory  lives 

Of  early  loves  and  sun-bright  years — 
If  thought  but  one  faint  flickering  gives — 

Whence  all  those  woes  and  burning  tears? 

Nay,  do  not  ask — to  tell  were  vain — 
My  grief,  not  Heaven  itself  can  'suage; 

Nor  seraph's  breath  can  cool  my  pain, 
Nor  quench  my  bosom's  burning  rage. 

My  country,  prey  to  tyrant's  bands — 

Her  glory  gone — her  brave  ones  dead— 
Her  daughter  slain  by  traitor's  hands — 

And  ask'st  thou  why  my  joy  is  sped  ? 


112  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

• 

'Fore  Heaven,  I  prize  this  faded  form, 

E'en  in  its  ghastly  features,  more 
Than  when  you  won  it  young  and  warm, 

And  it  alone  to  worship  swore. 

For  now  I  make  thee,  tyrant,  tremble  ' 

O'er  all  the  ruin  thou  hast  made ; 
In  vain  thou  seekest  to  dissemble — 

Oh !  curse  thy  bloody  heart  and  blade. 

And  cursed  may  her  ashes  be 

Who  basely  sold  her  maiden  hand 
To  him  who  crushed  our  liberty, 

And  drowned  in  blood  my  fatherland. 

The  prose  works  of  the  patriotic  priest  are  numer- 
ous, and  of  a  character  calculated  to  perpetuate  his 
name  and  fame  to  many  a  future  generation.  In  the 
order  of  time  "The  Confederation  of  Kilkenny" 
comes  first.  It  is  dedicated  to  Charles  Gavan  Duffy. 
It  ranks  high  among  the  historical  works  of  Ireland. 
He  collected  and  edited  the  literary  remains  of  his 
friends,  Thomas  Davis  and  James  Clarence  Mangan. 
"The  History  of  the  Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Franciscan 
Monasteries  in  Ireland"  and  a  "  History  of  the  Ger- 
aldines  "  are  the  work  of  his  active  brain  and  busy 
pen.  He  contributed  a  good  deal  to  the  periodicals 
of  his  day,  and  for  many  years  was  chief  editor  of 
Duffy's  Irish  Catholic  Magazine.  It  was  in  this  pub- 
lication that  his  longest,  though  by  no  means  his 
best,  poem  first  appeared,  "  The  Battle  of  Benburb." 


REV.    C.    P.    MEEHAN.  113 

As  a  linguist  Father  Meehan  had  very  few  super- 
iors in  Ireland  or  elsewhere.  German,  French, 
Spanish  and  Italian  were  almost  as  familiar  to  him 
as  his  vernacular  tongue,  and  he  made  good  use  of 
his  linguistic  learning.  He  compelled  all  these 
tongues  to  pay  tribute  to  him  during  his  pilgrimage 
to  the  celebrated  libraries  of  Europe,  in  search  of 
unpublished  manuscripts  referring  to  his  native 
land,  and  the  portraits  of  illustrious  Irishmen  who, 
after  the  Treaty  of  Limerick,  had  secured  fame  and 
fortune  in  the  service  of  continental  potentates. 

As  early  as  1847  he  published  a  translation  of 
"  La  Monaco  di  Monza,"  from  the  original  by  Magoni. 
In  1852  he  rendered  the  Rev.  Father  Marchese's 
"  Dominican  Sculptors,  Architects  and  Painters " 
into  English.  His  English  version  of  Archdeacon 
Lynch's  "  Life  of  the  Right  Rev.  Dr.  Kirwan,  Bishop 
of  Killala,"  is  translated  from  the  Latin.  This  book 
has  improved  in  the  translation.  All  these  works 
met  with  a  large  sale  in  Ireland  and  America;  for 
the  profit  he  cared  but  little. 

From  annals  compiled  by  one  John  O'Toole  of 
Wicklow,  he  wrote  an  excellent  work  on  the  O'Tooles 
and  O'Byrnes,  which  is  long  since  out  of  print.  But 
his  great  work,  as  we  have  said  before — the  one  on 
which  his  literary  reputation  principally  rests — is 
familiarly  known  as  the  "  Flight  of  the  Earls." 

9 


114  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

For  this  work  the  reviewers  had  much  praise. 
They  spoke  of  it  in  the  very  highest  terms.  One 
Londoner  wrote  of  it: 

"The  work  is  big  enough,  with  its  recondite  research,  its 
multiplicity  of  invaluable  documents,  dug  out  of  the  strata  of 
libraries  and  museums,  obtained  at  no  mean  inconvenience  or 
cost,  to  be  reckoned  worthy  of  the  labor  of  a  man's  life. 

Sir  Bernard  Burke  declared  it  to  be  a  "  most  im- 
portant contribution  to  the  best  historical  literature ;" 
and  many  other  critics  of  high  repute  have  spoken 
of  it  in  words  of  like  import. 

The  Hon.  Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee  wrote  to  the 
author  from  Montreal,  Canada,  under  date  of  Febru- 
ary 27th,  1867,  as  follows: 

"  MY  DEAK  MEEHAN:— Your  book  has  reached  me  at  last, 
and,  after  three  days'  steady  reading,  I  have  gone  through  it 
from  cover  to  cover.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  fascination  I 
found  in  its  pages.  Although  I  was  sorry  to  part  with  Cahir 
O'Doherty,  who  turns  out  to  be  a  poor  tool,  still  one  is  compen- 
sated by  the  heroic  firmness  of  the  main  figures,  and,  above  all, 
by  Tyrone  himself.  Considering  the  obsequiousness  of  the  age 
which  even  Bacon  and  Raleigh  bent  to,  I  was  afraid  that  the 
altered  fortunes  of  the  great  Hugh  might  have  broken  his  spirit 
and  tempted  him  to  some  declaration  unworthy  of  his  great 
place  in  history;  but,  thank  God,  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind, 
and  these  closing  scenes  are  really  among  the  fairest  and  worth- 
iest of  his  whole  life.  *  *  * 

"James  Duffy  has  done  his  part  nobly,  not  only  to  the 
typography,  but  those  admirable  portraits.  How  I  wish  you 


REV.    C.    P.    MEEHAN.  115 

may  be  so  cheered  on  as  to  take  up  Owen  Roe !  What  an 
admirable  sequel  it  would  make  to  this  volume,  which,  save  and 
except  Prendergast's,  I  hold  to  be  far  and  away  the  most  valua- 
ble contribution  to  our  historical  literature  for  many  a  long  day. 
If  you  never  put  your  pen  to  paper  again,  you  may  rest  your 
renown  on  this  book.  It  will  send  your  name  down  to  posterity 
with  the  heroes  whose  closing  scenes  it  so  piously  records.  *  * 
"  Yours  very  truly, 

"  T.  D.  McGEE. 

"  REV.  C.  P.  MEEHAN,  M.  R.  I.  A.. 
Dublin,  Ireland." 

Such  was  McGee's  estimate  of  the  work  on  which 
Father  Meehan's  renown  rests. 

The  reverend  writer  did  not  "  take  up  Owen  Roe." 
The  duties  of  his  sacred  calling  were  manifold,  oner- 
ous and  pressing,  and  the  vigor  of  youth  was  ebbing 
fast  away;  so  he  deemed  it  best  to  leave  that  work 
for  younger  hands. 

Towards  the  close  of  his  years,  Father  Meehan 
lived  a  great  deal  by  himself.  His  old  friends  and 
literary  associates  having  all  gone  to  their  eternal 
home,  he  seemed  lonely,  and  lived  a  great  deal  with 
God  alone.  Very  few  fully  appreciated  the  high- 
souled,  large-hearted,  simple-minded  priest  whose 
noble  life  was  so  usefully  spent  in  the  service  of  God 
and  his  country. 

"  Though  an  honored  member  of  the  Royal  Irish 
Academy/'  writes  one  who  knew  him,  "  he  was  full 
of  that  modesty  and  humility  which  are  alike  the 


116  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

attributes  of  true  genius  and  the 'true  priest."  He 
was  never  of  a  noisy  or  demonstrative  nature.  He 
thought  and  felt  more  than  he  ever  expressed  in 
words.  Well,  indeed,  might  these  lines  of  the  Poet- 
Priest  of  the  South  be  applied  to  that  generous  and 
heroic  priest  whose  heart,  without  a  murmur,  has 
bled  during  many  a  dreary  year  for  the  miseries  of 
his  ill-fated  country: 

Hearts  that  are  great  beat  never  loud; 

They  muffle  their  music  when  they  come, 
They  hurry  away  from  the  thronging  crowd 

With  bended  brows  and  lips  half  dumb. 

And  the  world  looks  on  and  mutters:  "  Proud." 
But  when  great  hearts  have  passed  away, 

Men  gather  in  awe  and  kiss  their  shroud, 
And  in  love  they  kneel  around  their  clay. 

***** 

Hearts  that  are  great  are  always  lone, 

They  never  will  manifest  their  best; 
Their  greatest  greatness  is  unknown. 

Earth  knows  a  little — God  the  rest. 

John  Mitchel  was  Father  Meehan's  ideal  of  a  true 
Irish  Nationalist,  and  between  the  two  a  lasting 
friendship  existed.  Devin  Reilly,  Father  John  Ken- 
yon  and  John  Martin  were  also 'in  the  circle  of  his 
intimate  friends.  The  portraits  of  these,  with  those 
of  Hugh  O'Neill,  O'Sullivan  Beare,  Colgan,  and  Luke 


REV.    C.    P.    MEEHAN.  117 

Wadding  adorned  his  walls  and  kept  him  company 
in  his  hours  of  loneliness. 

The  latest  edition  of  "  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of 
Munster"  was  made  by  our  author,  and  the  preface 
to  that  very  interesting  little  work,  which  is  also  the 
work  of  his  fertile  pen,  seems  to  us  the  best,  if  not 
the  most  complete,  biographical  sketch  of  Clarence 
Mangan  that  has  yet  gone  into  print. 

In  concluding  this  biographical  notice  of  a  learned 
ecclesiastic  whose  name  is  so  widely  known  and 
respected,  it  is  proper  to  say  a  few  words  about 
his  personal  appearance.  He  was  very  little  short  of 
medium  height,  slender  in  form,  with  a  well-knit 
frame  and  head  well  poised.  His  mouth,  while  indi- 
cating sensibility  of  the  finest  cast,  at  the  same  time 
betokened  that  firmness  of  purpose  which  was  a  dis- 
tinguishing trait  of  the  great  good  man.  Intellectu- 
ality was  stamped  upon  his  finely-formed  forehead; 
and  his  blue  eyes,  dreamy  at  times,  kindled  with  a 
brilliant  light  whenever  he  discussed  subjects  con- 
genial to  his  exalted  mind. 

In  temperament  he  was  purely  Celtic — quick  and 
impetuous.  Next  to  his  Breviary,  which  he  conned 
over  very  carefully  every  day  for  more  than  fifty 
years,  he  loved  the  national  poetry  of  Erin.  His 
appreciation  of  a  good  poem  was  remarkably  keen, 
and  his  criticism  of  a  bad  one  telling. 


118  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

As  a  preacher  he  was  eloquent,  earnest  and  impres- 
sive. The  poor  of  his  flock  he  relieved  to  the  full 
extent  of  his  means,  and  loved  them  only  as  a  zeal- 
ous priest  can  love. 

The  last  four  lines  of  the  following  melancholy 
little  poem  have  haunted  my  memory  for  many  years, 
and  will  not  be  forgotten.  There  is  scarcely  a  coup- 
let in  all  this  exquisitely-mournful  piece  that  is  not 
worth  remembering;  and  therefore  do  I  give  it  a 
place  in  this  brief  memorial: 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAVES. 

THEY  are  falling,  they  are  failing, 

And  soon,  alas!  they'll  fade, 
The  flowers  of  the  garden, 

The  leaves  of  dell  and  glade. 

Their  dirge  the  winds  are  singing 

In  the  lone  and  fitful  blast, 
And  the  leaves  and  flowers  of  Summer 

Are  strewn  and  fading  fast. 

Oh,  why,  then,  have  we  loved  them, 
When  their  beauties  might  have  told 

They  could  not  linger  long  with  us, 
Nor  stormy  skies  behold  ? 

Fair  creatures  of  the  sunshine, 

Your  day  of  life  is  past; 
Ye  are  scattered  by  the  rude  winds, 

Fallen  and  fading  fast. 


REV.    C.    P.    MEEHAN.  119 

And,  oh!  how  oft,  enchanted, 

Have  we  watched  your  opening  bloom, 

When  you  made  unto  the  day-god 
Your  offerings  of  perfume ! 

How  vain  are  our  imaginings 

That  joy  will  always  last ! 
Tis  like  to  you,  ye  sweet  things, 

All  dimmed  and  faded  fast. 

The  glens  where  late  ye  bloomed  for  us 

Are  leafless  now,  and  lorn; 
The  tempest's  breath  hath  all  their  pride 

And  all  their  beauty  shorn. 

Twas  ever  so,  and  so  shall  be; 

By  fate  that  doom  was  cast — 
The  things  we  love  are  scarcely  seen 

Till  they  are  gone  and  past. 

Ay,  ye  are  gone  and  faded, 

Ye  leaves  and  lovely  flowers, 
But  when  Spring  comes  you'll  come  again 

To  deck  the  garden's  bowers. 

And  beauty,  too,  will  cull  you, 

And  twine  ye  in  her  hair — 
What  meeter,  truer  emblem 

Can  beauty  ever  wear  ? 

But  never  here,  oh,  never, 

Shall  we  the  loved  ones  meet, 
Who  shone  in  youth  around  us 

And,  like  you,  faded  fleet. 


120  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Full  soon  affliction  bowed  them 

And  life's  day-dawn  o'ercast ; 
They're  blooming  now  in  heaven; 

Their  day  of  fading's  past ! 

Ye  withered  leaves  and  flowers, 

Oh,  may  you  long  impart 
Monition  grave  and  moral  stern 

Unto  this  erring  heart ! 

Oh,  teach  it  that  the  joys  of  earth 

Are  short-lived,  vain  and  frail, 
And  transient  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

Before  the  wintry  gale ! 

On  the  .14th  of  March,  1890,  Rev.  Father  Meehan 
died  at  the  rectory,  in  Exchange  street,  Dublin, 
where  he  had  labored  so  long,  and  his  final  resting 
place  on  earth  is  Glasnevin,  which  enshrines  all  that 
is  mortal  of  many  of  his  illustrious  countrymen. 

Of  his  ability  as  a  historian  he  has  left  us  palpable 
and  ample  proof. 

Had  the  more  serious  obligations  of  his  sacred 
calling  permitted  him  to  woo  the  muses  more,  he 
would  have  been  equally  successful  as  a  poet.  That 
he  was  one  is  amply  attested  by  the  poems  pub- 
lished with  this  biography. 


REV.    C.    P.    MEEHAN.  121 

THE  BATTLE   OF   BENBURB. 

[About  the  end  of  May,  1646,  Owen  Eoe  O'Neill,  at  the  head  of  five  thou- 
sand foot  and  five  hundred  horse,  approached  Armagh.  Monroe,  wlio  was 
then  stationed  within  ten  miles  of  the  city,  marched  thither  on  the  4th  of 
June,  at  midnight,  with  eight  hundred  horse  and  six  thousand  foot.  Mean- 
while, O'Neill,  aware  of  his  advance,  had  encamped  his  troops  at  Benburb, 
betwixt  two  small  hills.  The  rear  of  his  army  was  protected  by  a  wood,  and 
the  right  by  the  river  Blackwater.  Here  Monroe  determined  to  attack  him. 
Monroe  himself  had  passed  the  river  at  a  ford  near  Kinard,  and  marched 
towards  Benburb.  And  now  the  two  armies  met  in  order  of  battle.  The 
wary  O'Neill  amused  his  enemy,  during  several  hours,  with  various  maneuvres 
and  trifling  skirmishes,  until  the  sun,  which  at  first  had  been  favorable  to  the 
Scots,  began  to  descend  in  the  rear  of  the  Irish  troops,  and  shed  a  dazzling 
glare  on  their  enemies.  The  Scottish  General,  when  he  perceived  this 
prepared  to  retreat.  O'Neill,  however,  seized  the  opportunity  with  the 
promptitude  of  an  experienced  commander,  and  charged  the  Scots  and  the 
British  with  the  most  determined  valor,  and  with  the  result  so  graphically 
described  by  the  poet.] 

GIVE  praise  to  the  Virgin  Mother!  O'Neill  is  at  Benburb, 
The  chieftain  of  the  martial  soul,  who  scorns  the  Saxon  curb; 
Between  two  hills  his  camp  is  pitch'd,  and  in  its  front  up  thrown, 
The   ' '  Red  Hand "   points   to  victory   from   the   standard   of 

Tyrone ; 
Behind  him  rise  the  ancient  woods,  while  on  his  flank,  anear 

him, 
The  deep  Blackwater  calmly  glides  and  seems  to  greet  and 

cheer  him. 

Tis  a  glorious  morn  in  glowing  June!  against  the  sapphire  sky, 
Bright  glancing  in  the  golden  light  the  adverse  banners  fly; 
With  godly  boasts  the  Scottish  hast,  led  on  by  stout  Monroe, 
Have  crossed  the   main  with  venal  swords  to  aid  our  ruthless 

foe; 
And  never  in  sorer  need  than  now,  the  steel  of  the  hireling 

fenc'd  him, 
For  a  dauntless  Chief,  and  mighty  host,  stand  in  array  against 

him! 


122  HUSH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

By  all  the  Saints,  they  are  welcome,  across  the  crested  wave! 
For  few  who  left  Kinard  this  morn,  ere  night  shall  lack  a  grave. 
The  hour — the  man — await  them  now,  and  retribution  dire 
Shall  sweep  their  ranks  from  front  to  rear,  by  our  avenging  fire. 
Yet  on  they  marched   in  pride  of  heart — the  hell-engendered 

gloom 
Of  the  grim,  predestined  Puritan  impels  them  to  their  doom. 

A  thrilling  charge  their  trumpets  blow,  but  the  shout — "  O'Neill* 

aboo!" 

Is  heard  above  the  clarion  call, — ringing  the  wild  woods  through- 
"  On,  "cries  Lord  Ardes,  "On,  Cunninghame!  Forward  with 

might  and  main!" 
And  the  flower  of  Scottish  chivalry  come  swooping  down  the 

plain. 
Fiercely  they  dash  and  thunder  on, — as  the  rathful  waves  come 

leaping 
Toward   Rathlin  gray  on   a   wild   March   day,  when  western 

winds  are  sweeping. 

Now,  where  are  thy  hardy  kerne,  O'Neill?  oh,  whither  have 

they  fled  ? 
Hurrah!   that  volley  from  out  the   brakes   hath  covered   the 

sward  with  dead. 

The  horses  rear,  and  in  sudden  fear,  the  Scottish  warriors  flee, 
And  the  field  is  dyed  with  a  crimson   tide  from  their  bravest 

cavalry ! 
All  praise  to  the  Right-protecting  God,  who  guards  his  own  in 

danger, 
None  fell  save   one  of  the  Irish  host  by  the  gun  of  a  baffled 

stranger. 


BEY.    C.    P.    MEEHAN.  123 

"  On  to  the  charge!"  cries  fierce  Monroe, — "  Fear  not  the  bush 

and  scrog — 
Nor  that  the  river  bound  your  right,  and  your  left  be  flanked 

with  bog." 

And  on  they  come  right  gallantly ;  but  the  Fabius  of  the  West 
Receives  the  shock,  unmoved  as  a  rock,  and  calm  as  a  lion  at 

rest ; 

The  red  artillery  flashes  in  vain,  or  standeth  spent  and  idle. 
While   the   war-steeds   bound   across   the   plain,  and   foaming 

champ  the  bridle. 

From  the  azure  height  of  his  realm  of  light   the  sun  is  sinking 

low, 
And  the  blinding  gleams  of  his  parting  beams  dazzle  the  chafing 

foe;  * 

And  Owen's  voice,  like  a  trumpet  note,  rings  clear  through  the 

serried  ranks: 
"  Brave  brothers  in  arms,  the  hour  has  come,  give  God  and  the 

Virgin  thanks ! 
Strike  home  to-day,  or  heavier  woes  will  crush  our  homes  and 

altars ; 
Then  trample  the  foeman  in  his  blood,  and  curst  be  the  slave 

who  falters!"    • 

A  wild  shout  rends  the  lurid  air,  and  at  once  from  van  to  rear, 
Of  the  Irish  troops  each  soldier  grasps  his  matchlock,  sword  or 

spear ; 
The  chieftains  haste  their  steeds  to  loose,  and  spring  upon  their 

feet, 
That  every  chance  be  thus  cut  off,  of  a  coward's  base  retreat. 


124  IRISH   POETLS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

And,  "  Onward!  Forward!"  swells  the  cry,  in  one  tumultuous 

chorus, 
By  God  and  the  Virgin's  help,  we'll  drive  these  hireling  Scots 

before  us ! " 

'Tis  body  to  body  with  push  of  pike — 'tis  foe  confronting  foe ; 
Tis  gun  to  gun  and  blade  to  blade — 'tis  blow  returning  blow. 
Fierce  is  the  conflict, — fell  the  strife;  but  Heaven  defends  the 

right. 

The  Puritan's  sword  is  broken,  and  his  army  put  to  flight. 
They  break  away  in  wild  dismay,  while  some,  to  escape  the 

slaughter, 
Plunge   panting  into  the  purple     tide    that     dyes  the   dark 

Blackwater. 

May  Mary,  our  Mother,  be  ever  praised,  for  the  battle  fought 

and  won! 

By  Irish  hearts  and  Irish  hands,  beneath  that  evening  sun. 
Three  thousand  two  hundred  and  forty  foes  lay  dead  upon  the 

plain, 
And  the   Scots  bewailed  of    their  noble  chiefs,  Lord  Blaney 

among  the  slain. 

And  ever  against  a  deadly  foe  no  weaponed  hand  shall  falter, 
But  strike,  as  the  valiant  Owen  Roe,  for  home,  and  shrine,  and 

altar! 


FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN. 

HE  subject  of  this  sketch  derives  his  origin 
from  the  most  illustrious  house  in  the  history 
of  his  native  land.  The  name  alone  brings  to  every 
mind  well  versed  in  the  annals  of  Erin  a  long  list  of 
great  deeds,  coupled  with  constant  fidelity  to  the 
cause  of  faith  and  fatherland. 

This  poet  and  litterateur,  Fitz- James  O'Brien,  was 
born  in  the  County  of  Limerick,  early  in  the  year  of 
our  Lord  1828,  of  parents  who  were  neither  poor  nor 
wealthy.  His  father,  an  Irish  barrister,  took  a 
special  interest  in  the  future  bard,  and  devoted  much 
of  his  leisure  time  in  "  teaching  the  young  idea  how 
to  shoot,"  and  instilling  into  the  gifted  mind  of 
Fitz-James  that  love  of  philosophy  and  poetry  which 
distinguished  him  afterwards  in  the  world  of  letters. 
His  mother  was  a  lady  of  superior  talent  and  refine- 
ment, much  beloved  by  rich  and  poor  alike  for  her 
piety  and  benevolence.  From  her,  it  is  said,  he 
inherited  those  traits  of  kindness  and  uprightness 
that  characterized  every  act  of  his  checkered  career. 

Having  completed  his  primary  education  at  home 
and  become  proficient  in  the  classics,  he  entered 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  where  he  evinced  great 

(125) 


126 


IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 


aptitude  for  literature,  and  acquired  that  solid  and 
complete  education  which  stood  to  him  so  well  in 
the  battle  of  life,  and  made  him  a  remarkable  man 
among  the  literary  characters  of  the  day. 


While  yet  attending  the  College  of  "  Old  Trinity," 
and  during  his  second  summer  vacation,  he  visited 
the  places  of  interest  along  the  sea-coast  of  the 
County  Cork,  and  spent  some  d&ys  in  the  vicinity 
of  Loch  Ine — Lake  of  the  Ivy — near  the  town  of 
Baltimore,  where  he  wrote  that  oft-quoted,  much 
admired  and  beautiful  ballad  bearing  the  title  "  Loch 


FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN.  127 

Ine."  This  is  a  picturesque  salt-water  lake  south  of 
Skibbereen,  whose  shores  are  dotted  with  the  ivy- 
clad  walls  of  many  an  ancient  castle: 

LOCH  INE. 

I  KNOW  a  lake  where  the  cool  waves  break, 

And  softly  fall  on  the  silver  sand; 
And  no  steps  intrude  on  that  solitude, 

And  no  voice,  save  mine,  disturbs  the  strand. 

And  a  mountain  bold,  like  a  giant  of  old, 

Turned  to  stone  by  some  magic  spell, 
Uprears  in  might  his  misty  height , 

And  his  craggy  sides  are  wooded  well. 

In  the  midst  doth  smile  a  little  isle , 

And  its  verdure  shames  the  emerald's  green; 

On  its  grassy  side,  in  ruined  pride, 
A  castle  of  old  is  darkling  seen. 

On  its  lofty  crest  the  wild  cranes  nest, 
In  its  halls  the  sheep  good  shelter  find ; 

And  the  ivy  shades  where  a  hundred  blades 
Were  hung,  when  the  owners  in  sleep  reclined. 

That  chieftain  of  old,  could  he  how  behold 

His  lordly  tower  a  shepherd's  pen, 
His  corpse,  long  dead,  from  its  narrow  bed 

Would  rise,  with  anger  and  shame,  again. 

'Tis  sweet  to  gaze  when  the  sun's  bright  rays 
Are  cooling  themselves  in  the  trembling  wave ; 

But  'tis  sweeter  far  when  the  evening  star 
Shines  like  a  smile  at  Friendship's  grave. 


128  IRISH  POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

There  the  hollow  shells,  through  their  wreathed  cells, 

Make  music  on  the  silent  shore, 
As  the  summer  breeze,  through  the  distant  trees, 

Murmurs  in  fragrant  breathings  o'er. 

And  the  sea-weed  shines,  like  the  hidden  mines, 

Or  the  fairy  cities  beneath  the  sea, 
And  the  wave-washed  stones  are  bright  as  the  thrones 

Of  the  ancient  Kings  of  Araby.     * 

If  it  were  my  lot  in  that  fairy  spot 
To  live  forever  and  dream  'twere  mine, 

Courts  might  woo,  and  kings  pursue, 
Ere  I  would  leave  thee,  loved  Loch  Ine 

This  magnificent  poem  has  been  published  anony- 
mously in  the  national  school  series  of  his  native 
land,  and  is  as  familiar  to  his  countrymen  as  their 
matin  prayer.  It  also  appears  anonymously  at  page 
21,  Vol.  1,  of  the  "  Ballads  of  Ireland/'  collected  and 
edited  by  Edward  Hayes  some  thirty-five  years  ago, 
and  published  by  Duffy  and  Sons,  Dublin. 

The  second  volume  of  the  same  excellent  work 
contains  another  of  Mr.  O'Brien's  early  poems 
named  "  Irish  Castles,"  printed  under  the  head  of 
"  Miscellaneous  Poems,"  and  without  the  author's 
name. 

Having  completed  his  curriculum  in  the  great 
university  of  the  Irish  metropolis,  young  O'Brien 
received  a  considerable  sum  of  money  left  him  by 
the  will  of  his  lately  deceased  father,  and  emigrated 


FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEX.  129 

to  London  in  the  fall  of  1850;  and  there,  report  has 
it,  disburdened  himself  of  the  greater  part  of  his 
inheritance.  Through  the  influence  of  Dr.  Collins, 
he  obtained  from  his  distinguished  countryman,  Dr. 
R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  letters  of  introduction  to 
prominent  literary  men  in  the  United  States,  and, 
with  these  in  his  pocket  as  his  only  capital,  Fitz- 
James  O'Brien,  young  and  buoyant  with  hope,  sought 
the  shores  of  the  New  World  whither  so  many  of  his 
countrymen  had  gone  before. 

With  the  summer  of  1852  he  arrived  in  New 
York,  where  thenceforth  he  followed  journalism  as  a 
profession,  and  secured  for  his  friends  and  fellow- 
workers  such  men  as  John  Brougham,  Thomas  B. 
Aldrich,  Frank  H.  Bellew,  Frank  Wood,  Edward  F. 
Mullen,  Stephen  Fiske,  Arnold,  and  the  gifted,  genial 
Ned  Wilkins. 

His  first  engagement  in  the  great  American  me- 
tropolis was  on  the  Lantern,  published  by  Brougham. 
In  a  very  short  space  of  time  the  products  of  his 
fertile  pen  found  a  ready  market,  and  the  Whig 
Review,  Harper's  Magazine,  the  Home  Journal  and 
Nt  "'  York  Times  sought  with  avidity  every  article 
that  came  from  his  pen. 

He  was  a  regular  contributor  to  Harper's  Magazine, 
and  one  of  the  most  valued  members  of  the  staff. 
His  connection  with  that  periodical  dates  from 

^0^^t 

^  0*  TH* 


130  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

February,  1853;  and  between  that  issue  and  the 
time  of  his  death  in  1862,  his  prolific  genius  may 
be  traced  through  the  most  interesting  pages  of  the 
monthly.  His  last  contribution  appeared  in  it  in 
1864,  two  years  after  poor  O'Brien  was  laid  in  his 
final  resting-place. 

The  greatest  and  best  ode  of  our  century  was  writ- 
ten by  him  on  the  death  of  the  famous  Arctic  Ex- 
plorer, Dr.  Kane,  and  first  appeared  in  Harper's 
Weekly,  whence  it  was  reproduced  in  almost  every 
paper  of  note  throughout  the  whole  extent  of  the 
Republic.  We  reprint  it  here  to  give  the  readers  a 
concept  of  our  author's  mastery  over  ideas  and  lan- 
guage: 

KANE. 
I. 

ALOFT,  upon  an  old  basaltic  crag, 

Which,  scalped  by  keen  winds  that  defend  the  Pole, 

Gazes  with  dead  face  on  the  seas  that  roll 

Around  the  secret  of  the  mystic  zone, 

A  mighty  nation's  star-bespangled  flag 
Flutters  alone; 

And  underneath,  upon  the  lifeless  front 

Of  that  drear  cliff,  a  simple  name  is  traced — 

Fit  type  of  him,  who,  famishing  and  gaunt, 

But  with  a  rocky  purpose  in  his  soul, 

Breasted  the  gathering  snows, 

Clung  to  the  different  floes, 

By  want  beleaguered,  and  by  winter  chased, 

Seeking  the  brother  lost  amid  that  frozen  waste. 


FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN.  131 

II. 

Not  many  months  ago  we  greeted  him, 
Crowned  with  the  icy  honors  of  the  North. 
Across  the  land  his  hard-won  fame  went  forth, 
And  Maine's  deep  woods  were  shaken  limb  by  limb. 
His  own  mild  Keystone  State,  sedate  and  prim, 
Burst  from  its  decorous  quiet  as  he  came. 
Hot  Southern  lips,  with  eloquence  aflame, 
Sounded  his  triumph.     Texas,  wild  and  grim, 
Proffered  it's  horny  hand.     The  large-lunged  West 
From  out  it's  giant  breast 

Yelled  it's  frank  welcome.     And  from  main  to  main, 
Jubilant  to  the  sky, 
Thundered  the  mighty  cry, 

Honor  to  Kane ! 

III. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  beneath  his  feet  we  flung 
The  reddening  roses !     All  in  vain  we  poured 
The  golden  wine,  and  round  the  shining  board 
Sent  the  toast  circling,  till  the  rafters  rung 
With  the  thrice-tripled  honors  of  the  feast ! 
Scarce  the  buds  had  wilted  and  the  voices  ceased 
Ere  the  pure  light  that  sparkled  in  his  eyes, 
Bright  as  auroral  fires  in  southern  skies, 
Faded  and  faded;  and  the  brave  young  heart 
That  the  relentless  Arctic  winds  had  robbed 
Of  all  its  vital  heat,  in  that  long  quest 
For  the  lost  Captain,  now  within  his  breast 
More  and  more  faintly  throbbed. 
His  was  the  victory;  but  as  his  grasp 
Closed  on  the  laurel  crown  with  eager  clasp, 


132  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Death  launched  a  whistling  dart; 
And,  ere  the  thunders  of  applause  were  done, 
His  bright  eyes  closed  forever  on  the  sun ! 
Too  late,  too  late,  the  splendid  prize  he  won 
In  the  Olympic  race  of  science  and  of  art! 

IV. 

Like  to  some  shattered  berg  that,  pale  and  lone, 

Drifts  from  the  white  north  to  a  tropic  zone, 

And  in  the  burning  day 

Wastes  peak  by  peak  away, 

Till  on  some  rosy  even 

It  dies  with  sunlight  blessing  it;  so  he 

Tranquilly  floated  to  a  southern  sea, 

And  melted  into  heaven ! 

V. 

He  needs  no  tears,  who  lived  a  noble  life' 

We  will  not  weep  for  him  who  did  so  well ; 

But  we  will  gather  round  the  hearth  and  tell 

The  story  of  his  strife. 

Such  homage  suits  him  well; 

Better  than  funeral  pomp  or  passing-bell ! 

VI. 

What  tale  of  peril  and  self-sacrifice ! 
Prisoned  amid  the  fastnesses  of  ice, 
With  hunger  howling  o'er  the  waves  of  snow ! 
Night  lengthening  into  months;   the  ravenous  floe 
Crunching  the  massive  ships,  as  the  white  bear 
Crunches  his  prey;  the  insufficient  share 
Of  loathsome  fgpd; 


FITZ-JAMES   O'BRIEN.  133 

The  lethargy  of  famine ;  the  despair 
Urging  to  labor,  nervelessly  pursued; 
Toil  done  with  skinny  arms,  and  faces  hued 
Like  pallid  masks,  while  dolefully  behind 
Glimmered  the  fading  embers  of  a  mind! 
That  awful  hour,  when  through  the  prostrate  band 
Delirium  stalked,  laying  his  burning  hand 
Upon  the  ghastly  foreheads  of  the  crew—- 
The whispers  of  rebellion,  faint  and  few 
At  first,  but  deepening  ever  till  they  grew 
Into  black  thoughts  of  murder — such  the  throng 
Of  horrors  round  the  Hero.     High  the  song 
Should  be  that  hymns  the  noble  part  he  played ! 
Sinking  himself,  yet  ministering  aid 
To  all  around  him,  by  a  mighty  will 
Living  defiant  of  the  wants  that  kill, 
Because  his  death  would  seal  his  comrade's  fate ; 
Cheering  with  ceaseless  and  inventive  skill, 
Those  polar  winters  dark  and  desolate, 
Equal  to  every  trial,  every  fate, 
He  stands  until  spring,  tardy  with  relief, 
Unlocks  the  icy  gate, 

And  the  pale  prisoners  tread  the  world  once  more, 
To  the  steep  cliffs  of  Greenland's  pastoral  shore, 
Bearing  their  dying  chief. 

VII. 

Time  was  when  he  should  gain  his  spurs  of  gold 
From  royal  hands,  who  wooed  the  knightly  state; 
The  knell  of  old  formalities  is  tolled, 
And  the  world's  knights  are  now  self -consecrate. 


134  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

No  grander  episode  doth  chivalry  hold 
In  all  its  annals  back  to  Charlemagne, 
Than  that  long  vigil  of  unceasing  pain, 
Faithfully  kept,  through  hunger  and  through  cold, 
By  the  good  Christian  knight,  ELISHA  KANE. 

He  has  written  entirely  about  fifty  poems,  all  or 
nearly  all  of  which  bear  evidence  of  superior  talent 
and  will  afford  pleasure  and  instruction  to  many 
readers  yet  unborn. 

A  writer  in  the  New  York  Citizen  of  September 
30,  1865,  referring  to  the  dead  poet,  says: 

' '  Fitz- James  O'Brien  would  have  passed  anywhere  for  a  fine- 
looking  man,  as  he  certainly  was.  His  complexion  was  florid; 
his  eyes  dark  blue,  with  a  marvellously  winning  expression. 
His  voice  in  speaking  was  the  richest,  the  sweetest,  the  most 
persuasive  and  expressive  of  all  the  male  voices  I  can  now 
recall.  It  was  a  power  in  itself.  I  shall  never  forget  the  im- 
pression he  made  on  a  little  party,  one  evening,  by  the  manner 
in  which  he  read  several  of  Emerson's  poems.  He  threw  so 
much  warmth,  so  much  human  tenderness  and  sympathy  into 
them  that  we  were  all  astonished.  Then,  artfully  turning  the 
leaves,  as  if  still  reading  from  the  book,  he  recited  his  own 

BACCHUS. 
Pink  as  the  rose  was  his  skin  so  fair 

Round  as  the  rosebud  his  perfect  shape, 
And  there  lay  a  light  in  his  tawny  hair, 

Like  the  sun  in  the  heart  of  a  bursting  grape. 
' '  You  can  fancy  how  we  marveled  to  hear  such  luscious  tropes 
from  Emerson,  and  how  we  laughed  over  the  deception  when 
O'Brien  informed  us  of  it." 


FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN.  135 

O'Brien's  methods  of  working  were  in  no  wise  sys- 
tematic. He  often  let  days  and  weeks  pass  without 
putting  a  pen  to  paper.  Then,  when  the  inspiration 
came,  he  wrote  steadily  and  easily  to  the  end,  often 
without  interruption. 

One  who  admired  and  appreciated  him,  Stephen 
Fiske,  fifteen  years  after  the  death  of  the  poet,  jour- 
nalist and  soldier,  speaks  of  him  thus: 

' '  Fitz- James  O'Brien  now  stands  before  me,  and  I  see  his 
stout,  athletic  figure;  his  broad,  ruddy  Irish  face;  his  charac- 
teristic suit  of  that  check  pattern  supposed  to  be  monopolized 
by  British  tourists;  and,  indeed,  in  those  merry  Bohemian  days, 
the  checks  he  wore  were  the  only  ones  he  knew.  *  *  * 
O'Brien,  like  most  of  his  comrades  of  that  brilliant  coterie  we 
knew  and  loved,  died  too  soon  for  his  fame.  His  writings  were 
exquisite;  but  they  are  forgotten,  except  by  the  select  few 
who  collect  and  prize  such  literary  gems.  The  war  interposes 
between  his  fame  and  the  present  generation,  like  a  new  deluge. 
The  clear,  strong,  sweet  voice  of  poetry  was  drowned  by  the 
clash  of  resounding  arms.  Even  as  a  soldier  of  the  Union  he 
fell  too  soon;  for  his  memory  is  obscured  by  the  holocausts  of 
later  but  not  more  noble  sacrifices/' 

Among  O'Brien's  writings  are  many  plays  which 
have  met  with  great  favor  in  New  York.  For  James 
W.  Wallack  he  wrote  a  piece  entitled,  "A  Gentleman 
from  Ireland,"  which  held  its  own  on  the  stage  for 
many  years  after  the  author  was  consigned  to  the 
grave.  He  possessed  great  dramatic  power  and  a 
consummate  knowledge  of  stage  business,  and  acted 


136  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

for  some  time  in  the  capacity  of  stage  critic  and 
dramatic  reviewer  for  the  New  YorV  Saturday  Press. 

Numerous  articles  from  his  pen  are  scattered 
through  at  least  fifteen  different  periodicals,  bearing 
the  stamp  of  originality  and  genius  upon  them.  His 
poems  and  about  thirteen  of  his  short  stories  have 
been  published  by  Osgood  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.;  but 
the  book  is  entirely  out  of  print  now. 

A  lover  of  liberty,  equality,  and  the  flag  of  his 
adopted  country,  he  espoused  the  cause  of  the  Union 
when  the  Civil  War  broke  out  in  1861,  and,  like 
thousands  of  his  noble-hearted  and  enthusiastic 
countrymen,  went  proudly  to  the  front.  While  act- 
ing on  the  staff  of  General  Lander,  in  Virginia,  he 
received  a  mortal  wound  in  a  skirmish  with  Colonel 
Ashley's  command,  on  the  26th  day  of  February, 
1862,  and  died  on  the  6th  of  April  following. 

General  Lander  having  commended  Lieutenant 
O'Brien's  behavior  on  this  occasion  in  his  dispatches 
to  headquarters,  General  McClellan  returned  the 
following  dispatch  on  the  very  next  day: 

"  GENERAL  LANDER:— Please  say  to  Lieutenant  O'Brien  that 
I  am  much  pleased  with  his  gallantly,  and  deeply  pained  to 
hear  of  his  wound.  I  trust  he  will  soon  be  well  enough  to  give 
the  cause  the  benefit  of  his  services  again. 

"  GEORGE  B.  MCCLELLAN." 

He  died  at  the  house  of  a  Mr.  Thruston,  in  Cum- 
berland, Maryland,  on  the  day  given  above,  and  his 


FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN.  137 

remains  were  brought  to  New  York  by  his  numerous 
friends  and  associates,  for  interment  in  Greenwood 
Cemetery,  where  he  sleeps  the  sleep  that  knows  no 
waking. 

He  gave  to  his  adopted  land  the  products  of  his 
gifted  mind  to  enrich  her  literature  and  exalt  her 
name;  with  all  the  fervor  and  fidelity  of  his  generous 
and  heroic  race,  he  championed  her  cause  and  laid 
down  his  life  on  the  field  of  battle  to  maintain  the 
integrity  of  her  government. 

IRISH  CASTLES. 

SWEET  Norah,  come  here,  and  look  into  the  fire; 

Maybe  in  its  embers  good  luck  we  might  see ; 
But  don't  come  too  near,  or  your  glances  so  shining, 

Will  put  it  clean  out,  like  the  sunbeams,  machree! 

"  Just  look  'twixt  the  sods,  where  so  brightly  they're  burning, 
There's  a  sweet  little  valley,  with  rivers  and  trees, 

And  a  house  on  the  bank,  quite  as  big  as  the  squire's — 
Who  knows  but  some  day  we'll  have  something  like  these  ? 

"  And  now  there's  a  coach  and  four  galloping  horses, 

A  coachman  to  drive,  and  a  footman  behind; 
That  betokens  some  day  we  will  keep  a  fine  carriage, 

And  dash  through  the  streets  with  the  speed  of  the  wind." 

As  Dermot  was  speaking,  the  rain  down  the  chimney, 
Soon  quenched  the  turf -fire  on  the  hollowed  hearth  stone: 

While  mansion  and  carriage,  in  smoke-wreaths  evanished, 
And  left  the  poor  dreamer  dejected  and  lone. 


138  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Then  Norah  to  Dermot.  these  words  softly  whisper'd: 
' '  Tis  better  to  strive  than  to  vainly  desire : 

And  our  little  hut  by  the  roadside  is  better 

Than  palace,  and  servants,  and  coach — in  the  fire!" 

'Tis  years  since  poor  Dermot  his  fortune  was  dreaming- 
Since  Norah's  sweet  counsel  effected  its  cure ; 

For,  ever  since  then  hath  he  toiled  night  and  morning, 
And  now  his  snug  mansion  looks  down  on  the  Suir. 


GERALD  GRIFFIN. 


FEIENDS  far  away — and  late  exiled, 

Whene'er  these  scattered  pages  met  your  gaze, 
Think  of  the  scenes  where  early  fortune  smiled — 

The  land  that  was  your  home  in  happier  days; 

The  sloping  lawn,  in  which  the  tired  rays 
Of  evening  stole  o'er  Shannon's  sheeted  flood, 

The  hills  of  Clare  that  in  the  softening  haze 
Looked  vapor-like,  and  dim  the  lonely  wood; 

The  cliff-bound  Inch,  the  chapel  in  the  glen, 
Where  oft  with  bare  and  reverent  locks  we  stood 

To  hear  th'  eternal  truths;  the  small,  dark  maze 

Of  wild  stream  that  clipped  the  bosom'd  plain, 
And,  toiling  thro'  the  varied  solitude, 

Upraised  its  hundred  silvered  tongues  and  babbled  praise. 


EARLY  fifty-one  weary  years  have  passed 
away  since  the  author  of  this  touching  stanza, 
robed  in  the  simple  habit  of  a  Christian  Brother, 
breathed  forth  his  pure  and  noble  spirit  into  the 
hands  of  Him  who  gave  it;  and  yet  these  lines  have 
as  much  interest  for  "  friends  far  away  " — the  Irish 
exiles  of  to-day — as  they  had  for  the  generation  to 
which  they  were  addressed.  Still  is  the  mere  men- 
tion of  "  that  land  that  was  his  home  in  happier 
days  "  sufficient  to  bring  a  flood  of  affectionate  feel- 
ing to  the  heart  of  every  wanderer  from  that  gifted, 
though  ill-fated  isle.  As  gentle  Gerald,  with  patriotic 
pride  and  filial  devotion,  looked  back  from  the  cold 

(139) 


140 


IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 


land  of  the  Briton  to  the  "  cliff-bound  Inch  and 
chapel  in  the  glen,"  entwined  with  his  fondest  recol- 
lections, so  does  many  a  brave  and  loving  heart  to- 
day turn  from  distant  shores  to  those  self-same 
scenes,  hallowed  by  a  thousand  memories.  The  feel- 
ings and  affections  of  Gerald  Griffin  were  in  common 


with  the  majority  of  our  race,  and  hence  it   is  that 
we  claim  for  him  a  foremost  place  in  these  pages. 

Gerald,  ninth  son  of  Patrick  Griffin,  a  Brunswick- 
street  brewer,  was  born  on  the  12th  of  December, 
1803,  within  the  old  city  wall  of  Limerick.  His 
mother,  who  was  a  woman  of  more  than  ordinary 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  141 

taste  and  refinement,  placed  the  future  poet  and  nov- 
elist under  the  instruction  of  a  certain  Mr.  MacEli- 
got,  at  that  time  the  most  learned  and  successful 
" hedge  teacher"  in  Limerick  county.  When  Mrs. 
Griffin,  accompanied  hy  an  elder  brother,  first  intro- 
duced Gerald  to  this  wondrous  pedagogue,  she  re- 
marked: "  You  will  oblige  me  very  much,  Mr.  Mac- 
Eligot,  by  paying  particular  attention  to  the  boys' 
pronunciation,  and  making  them  perfect  in  their 
reading."  The  knight  of  the  birchen-switches  gazed 
for  a  while  with  astonishment  at  her,  and  answering 
said :  "  You  had  better  take  your  children  home, 
madam.  I  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  them!  Per- 
haps, Mrs.  Griffin,  you  are  not  aware  that  there  are 
only  three  persons  in  Ireland  who  know  how  to  read." 
" Three  persons!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Griffin.  "  Yes> 
madam,  only  three — the  Bishop  of  Kildare,  the  Earl  of 
Clare,  and  your  humble  servant.  Reading  is,  indeed, 
a  natural  gift,  not  an  acquirement."  This  was  the 
man  who  first  trained  Gerald's  "young  idea  how  to 
shoot."  After  developing  considerable  talent  at  the 
school  of  Mr.  MacEligot,  young  Gerald  moved  to  a 
farm  about  thirty  miles  from  the  "  City  of  the  Broken 
Treaty."  This  homestead,  beautifully  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Shannon,  they  called  Fairy  Lawn,  and 
here  a  tutor  was  secured,  under  whose  guidance  and 
instruction  young  Griffin  became  familiar  with  the 
best  authors  in  English  literature,  and  cultivated  a 


142  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

taste  and  developed  his  talent  for  poetry.  Even 
when  a  mere  boy  he  was  a  voracious  devourer  of 
books,  reading  everything  on  which  he  could  lay 
hands,  and  even  copying  out  with  his  ever  busy  pen 
whatever  struck  him  as  beautiful  or  beneficial.  He 
transcribed  almost  all  "  Moore's  Melodies  "  with  such 
care  and  exactitude  as  to  omit  not  even  a  comma. 

It  is  almost  a  truism  that  there  were  but  few  re- 
markable men  in  the  world  who  did  not  draw  their 
best  inspirations  and  most  salutary  principles  of 
morality  from  a  good  mother.  Gerald's  mother  had 
no  small  influence  in  forming  the  noble  character  of 
her  ninth  son,  and  to  the  integrity  of  that  well- 
formed  character  he  owed  most  of  his  success  in  after 
life.  This  amiable  lady  is  said  to  have  been  passion- 
ately fond  of  literature,  and  had  an  original  turn  of 
mind.  She  was  well  acquainted  with  the  best  works 
of  English  classic  literature,  and  took  great  delight  in 
training  her  children  to  cultivate  tastes  similar  to 
her  own  in  this  respect.  "But,"  says  her  son,  "a 
sound  religious  instruction  she  considered  as  the 
foundation  of  everything  good,  and  it  was  her  con- 
stant aim  to  instill  more  strongly  into  the  minds  of 
her  children  that  nobility  of  sentiment  and  princely 
feeling,  in  all  transactions  with  others,  which  are  its 
necessary  fruits,  and  which  the  world  itself,  in  its 
greatest  faithlessness  to  religion ,  is  compelled  to  wor- 
ship. She  would  frequently,  through  the  day,  or  in 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  143 

the  evening,  ask  us  questions  in  history,  and  these 
were  generally  such  as  tended  to  strengthen  our 
remembrance  of  important  passages,  or  to  point  out 
in  any  historical  character  those  traits  of  moral  beauty 
she  admired.  '  Gerald, '  I  have  heard  her  ask, 
'what  did  Camillus  say  to  the  school-master  of 
Falarii? '  Gerald  sat  erect,  his  countenance  glowing 
with  the  indignation  such  an  act  of  baseness  inspired, 
and  repeated  with  energy:  "  'Execrable  wretch/  cried 
the  Roman,  *  offer  thy  abominable  proposals  to  some 
creature  like  thyself — and  not  to  me.  What!  though 
we  be  enemies  of  your  city,  are  there  not  natural  ties 
that  bind  all  mankind  which  should  never  be  bro- 
ken?'" 

Mr  Griffin  being  unsuccessful  in  business,  was  in- 
duced by  one  of  his  sons,  who  had  been  an  officer 
in  the  British  army  in  Canada,  to  emigrate  to 
America.  About  the  year  1820  a  portion  of  the 
family  found  a  new  home  on  the  banks  of  the  Sus- 
quehanna,  Pennsylvania,  and  this  sweet  spot  they 
called  Fairy  Lawn,  after  the  old  home  in  the  Green 
Isle.  Gerald  remained  in  Ireland,  and  resided  with 
his  brother,  a  medical  doctor,  in  Adare.  There, 
among  the  ruins  of  Erin's  former  splendor,  he  conned 
over  the  pages  of  Ovid  and  Virgil,  or  feasted  on  the 
lyrics  of  Horace;  and  there  he  felt  the  first  inspira- 
tion of  the  muse  which  he  has  left  us  in  a  beautiful 
poem  descriptive  of  the  scenes  and  objects  of  his  love: 


144  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

AD  ARE. 

Oh,  sweet  Adare!  oh,  lovely  vale! 

Oh,  soft  retreat  of  sylvan  splendor* 
Nor  summer  sun  nor  morning  gale 

E'er  hailed  a  scene  more  softly  tender. 
How  shall  I  tell  the  thousand  charms 

Within  thy  verdant  bosom  dwelling, 
Where,  lulled  in  Nature's  fostering  arms 

Soft  peace  abides  and  joy  excelling. 

Ye  morning  airs,  how  sweet  at  dawn 

The  slumbering  boughs  your  songs  awaken, 
Or  linger  o'er  the  silent  lawn 

With  odors  of  the  hare-bell  taken. 
Thou  rising  sun,  how  richly  gleams 

Thy  smile  from  far  Knock  Fierna's  mountain, 
O'er  waving  woods  and  bounding  streams, 

And  many  a  grove  and  glancing  fountain. 

Ye  clouds  of  noon,  how  freshly  there, 

When  summer  heats  the  open  meadows, 
O'er  parched  hill  and  valley  fair, 

All  coolly  lie  your  veiling  shadows. 
Ye  rolling  shades  and  vapors  grey, 

Slow  creeping  o'er  the  golden  heaven, 
How  soft  you  seal  the  eye  of  day , 

And  wreath  the  dusky  brow  of  even. 

In  sweet  Adare,  the  jocund  spring 
His  notes  of  odorous  joy  is  breathing. 

The  wild  birds  in  the  meadows  sing; 

The  wild  flowers  in  the  air  are  breathing. 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  145 

There  winds  the  Hague,  as  silver  clear 

Among  the  elms  so  sweetly  flowing; 
There  fragrant  in  the  early  year, 

Wild  roses  on  the  banks  are  blowing. 

The  wild  duck  seeks  the  sedgy  bank, 

Or  dives  beneath  the  glistening  billow, 
Where  graceful  droop  and  clustering  dank 

The  osier  bright  and  rustling  willow. 
The  hawthorn  scents  the  leafy  dale, 

In  thicket  lone  the  stag  is  belling; 
And  sweet  along  the  echoing  vale 

The  sound  of  vernal  joy  is  swelling. 

His  passion  for  literature  became  so  strong  while 
in  Adare,  that  Gerald  abandoned  all  idea  of  the 
medical  craft  for  which  his  parents,  even  then  in 
America,  had  destined  him.  His  occasional  contri- 
butions to  the  Limerick  Advertiser  attracted  the 
notice  of  Mr.  McDonnell,  then  editor  and  proprietor 
of  that  journal;  and  the  young  novelist,  after  a  short 
apprenticeship,  was  placed  in  the  editorial  chair  of 
the  Advertiser.  But  the  young  patriotic  Irishman, 
instead  of  adhering  to  Mr.  McDonnell's  political 
maxim  to  "  please  the  Castle,"  "  pulled  the  Castle 
around  that  place-hunter's  ears,"  and,  in  consequence, 
was  obliged  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat  from  the  sanctum 
of  the  indignant  politician.  This  was  Gerald's  start- 
ing point  for  fields  of  fame — for  London — to  "  revo- 

ii 


146  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

lutionize  the  dramatic  taste  of  the  time  by  writing 
for  the  stage."  But  we  shall  not  follow  him  at  pres- 
ent to  recount  his  trials  and  triumphs  in  the  smoky 
city.  We  shall  linger  to  cull  a  few  garlands  from  his 
poetry,  which  ought  to  be  fostered  and  preserved  in 
the  household  of  every  true-hearted  Celt.  The  fol- 
lowing lines  never  fail  to  awaken  a  responsive  chord 
in  every  exile's  bosom: 

OLD  TIMES. 

Old  times!  old  times!  the  gay  old  times! 

When  I  was  young  and  free, 
And  heard  the  merry  Easter  chimes 

Under  the  sally  tree. 
My  Sunday  palm  beside  me  placed, 

My  cross  upon  my  hand; 
A  heart  at  rest  within  my  breast, 

And  sunshine  on  the  land ! 

Old  times!  old  times! 

It  is  not  that  my  fortunes  flee, 

Nor  that  my  cheek  is  pale; 
I  mourn  when  e'er  I  think  of  thee, 

My  darling  native  vale ! 
A  wiser  head  I  have,  I  know, 

Than  when  I  loitered  there; 
But  in  my  wisdom  there  is  woe, 

And  in  my  knowledge  care. 

Old  times!  old  times! 


GERALD  GRIFFIN.  147 

I've  lived  to  know  my  share  of  joy, 

To  feel  my  share  of  pain; 
To  learn  that  friendship's  self  can  cloy, 

To  love  and  love  in  vain; 
To  feel  a  pang  and  wear  a  smile, 

To  tire  of  other  climes; 
To  love  my  own  unhappy  Isle, 

And  sing  the  gay  old  times! 

Old  times!  old  times! 

And  sure  the  land  is  nothing  changed; 

The  birds  are  singing  still, 
The  flowers  are  springing  where  we  ranged, 

There's  sunshine  on  the  hill. 
The  sally  waving  o'er  my  head 

Still  sweetly  shades  my  frame; 
But  oh!  those  happy  days  are  fled, 

And  I  am  not  the  same. 

Old  times!  old  times! 

Oh,  come  again,  ye  merry  times! 

Sweet,  sunny,  fresh  and  calm; 
And  let  me  hear  those  Easter  chimes, 

And  wear  my  Sunday  palm. 
If  I  could  cry  away  mine  eyes, 

My  tears  would  flow  in  vain; 
If  I  could  waste  my  heart  in  sighs, 

They'll  never  come  again ! 

Old  times!  old  times! 

This  sweet,  simple  poem  which  "  looks  longingly 
back  to  the  days  that  are  forever  faded,"  surpasses  in 
many  respects  that  of  Oliver  W.  Holmes  on  the  same 


148  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

subject,  so  much  admired  and  so  deservedly  popular. 
Once  read,  its  euphonious  measures  haunt  the  mem- 
ory in  every  stage  of  life,  and  gives  expression  to 
that  yearning  for  the  past  so  common  to  humanity. 
Gerald  Griffin's  "  Sister  of  Charity  "  is  well  known 
to  most  readers  of  poetry. 

This  beautiful  composition,  with  "  O'Brazil  the  Isle 
of  the  Blest,"  and  another  equally  moral,  were  writ- 
ten when  Gerald  began  to  see  the  vanity  of  human 
ambition,  and  to  think  seriously  of  embracing  a  reli- 
gious state  of  life. 

Griffin's  lyrics  are  the  best  of  his  pieces,  and  his 
simple  love  songs  are  the  best  of  all.  It  is  believed, 
had  he  devoted  his  muse  to  writing  songs  for  the 
people,  that  he  would  be  to  the  "land  of  song"  what 
Burns  was  to  Scotland — a  poet  of  and  for  the  people. 
It  is  to  be  regretted  that,  on  deciding  to  pursue  a 
religious  life,  he  destroyed  a  number  of  poems  which 
were  never  published.  They  were,  according  to  the 
opinion  of  his  brother,  superior  to  most  of  his  pub- 
lished pieces;  but  he  has  left  us  enough  to  establish 
his  reputation  as  a  poet  whose  name  is  not  soon  des- 
tined to  sink  into  oblivion. 

In  the  autumn  of  1823  this  aspirant  for  literary 
laurels  went  to  London,  where  he  met  John  Banim 
and  William  Maginn,  LL.  D.,  the  famous  editor  of 
Frazer's  Magazine.  Banim,  who  was  then  a  great 
success  in  the  literary  world,  became  quite  interested 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  149 

in  Gerald,  soon  recognized  his  ability,  and  introduced 
him  to  the  first  literary  lights  of  London.  In  a  let- 
ter to  his  brother,  Gerald  says  of  Banim:  "  Mark 
me,  he  is  a  man — the  best  I  have  met  since  I  left 
Ireland.  We  walked  over  Hyde  Park  on  St.  Patrick's 
Day,  and  renewed  our  home  recollections  by  gathering 
shamrocks  and  placing  them  in  our  hats,  even  under 
the  eye  of  John  Bull."  In  the  English  metropolis, 
he  was  obliged  to  write  for  food  instead  of  fame,  and, 
though  his  tales  and  articles  were  promptly  accepted 
by  the  best  magazines,  payment  was  by  no  means 
prompt  or  liberal.  Some  of  the  best  pages  of  the 
Literary  Gazette  were  filled  by  his  pen,  and  the  raci- 
est articles  of  the  European  Review  emanated  from 
his  fertile  brain.  He  wrote  plays  which  were  ad- 
mired; he  translated  Prevot's  works  at  the  rate  of 
two  guineas  a  volume,  and,  withal  starved  in  a  dark 
and  dismal  garret,  where  he  was  sought  and  saved 
by  a  kind  friend.  When  discovered  in  this  gloomy 
retreat  he  was  working  hard  on  one  of  his  tales, 
though  he  had  not  tasted  food  for  three  days. 

But  this  was  the  dark  hour  which  preceded  the 
dawn.  The  day  of  public  patronage  soon  shone  on 
him,  and  success  crowned  his  persevering  toil.  In 
1832  his  play  of  "  Gisippus,"  a  tragedy  in  five  acts, 
was  performed  in  the  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  and 
received  from  both  press  and  public  a  magnificent 
reception.  We  can  best  estimate  the  rapidity  of  his 


150  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

success  after  this  by  an  extract  from  one  of  his  own 
letters : — 

"  Since  the  day  I  received  your  letter,"  he  says  to  his  brother, 
'  *  I  have  achieved  a  multiplicity  of  engagements  with  publishers 
and  periodicals.  In  the  first  place,  I  procured  an  introduction 
from  Dr.  Maginn  to  the  editor  of  the  Literary  Gazette  and  got 
an  engagement  from  him  to  furnish  sketches  at  a  very  liberal 
remuneration —  a  guinea  a  page.  *  *  * 

"  Then  I  sent  articles  to  the  European  Magazine.  Here,  also, 
I  was  successful — there  was  not  a  word  of  objection,  and  they 
have  already  inserted  several  pieces.  Then  I  made  an  essay  on 
one  of  the  lions — the  London  Magazine — and  was  accepted  there. 
I  know  not  what  the  proceeds  will  be  yet,  but  I  am  told  by  an 
old  contributor  that  I  made  '  a  palpable  hit. '  I  also  got  an 
engagement  from  the  proprietor  of  the  new  Catholic  newspaper, 
by  which  I  have  already  made  several  guineas." 

Success  was  now  at  his  command,  but  possession 
seems  to  have  destroyed  the  charm;  for,  though  he 
worked  on  still  with  characteristic  determination 
and  energy  he  wrote  to  his  brother: — 

"  I  am  sick  and  tired  of  this  gloomy,  stupid,  lonely,  wasting, 
dispiriting,  caterpillar  kind  of  existence,  which  I  endure,  how- 
ever, in  hope  of  a  speedy  metamorphosis." 

It  was  ahout  this  time  that  he  wrote  that  sweet 
pathetic  little  lyric,  of  which  the  following  is  a  verse. 
It  is  an  index  to  his  feelings  at  this  stage: 
Why  has  my  soul  been  given 

A  zeal  to  soar  to  higher  things 

Than  quiet  rest — to  seek  a  haven 

And  fall  with  scattered  wings  ? 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  151 

Have  I  been  blest  ?  the  sea  wave  sings 
'Tween  me  and  all  that  was  mine  own; 

I've  found  the  joy  Ambition  brings, 
And  walk  alone — and  walk  alone. 

Our  author's  personal  appearance,  which  was  of 
the  best  kind,  may  be  inferred  from  a  description 
left  by  his  brother,  Dr.  Griffin,  who  visited  the 
novelist  in  London  in  the  month  of  September, 
1826.  "  I  had  not  seen  him,"  says  the  Doctor,  "  since 
he  left  Adare,  and  was  struck  with  the  change  in  his 
appearance.  All  color  had  left  his  cheek,  he  had 
grown  quite  thin,  and  there  was  a  sedate  expression 
of  countenance  so  unusual  in  one  so  young,  and 
which  afterwards  became  habitual  to  him.  It  was 
far  from  being  so,  however,  at  the  time  I  speak  of, 
and  readily  gave  way  to  that  light  and  lively  glance 
of  his  dark  eye,  that  cheerfulness  of  manner  and 
observant  humor,  which  from  his  very  infancy  had 
enlivened  our  fireside  circle  at  home.  Although  so 
pale  and  thin,  his  tall  figure,  expressive  features  and 
profusion  of  dark  hair  thrown  back  over  his  fine 
forehead,  gave  an  expression  of  a  person  remarkably 
handsome  and  interesting." 

Here  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  mention  a  very 
interesting  episode  which  gave  a  tinge  of  romance  to 
the  last  ten  or  twelve  years  of  Gerald  Griffin's  life. 
In  Limerick  he  became  acquainted  with  a  certain 
gentleman  and  his  wife,  members  of  the  Society  of 


152  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

Friends,  and  a  very  strong  natural  attachment  soon 
formed  between  them  and  the  amiable  author  of  the 
"  Collegians."  "  The  feelings  of  the  poet  towards  the 
lady/'  says  Mr.  Giles,  "though  evidently  of  reveren- 
tial purity,  were  colored — nay  beautified — by  the 
difference  of  sex.  His  letters  to  her  were  numerous, 
eloquent  and  very  often  of  an  elevated  character. 
His  last  letter,  presenting  her  with  an  old  desk  on 
which  all  his  literary  work  had  been  accomplished, 
was  tender  and  musical  with  pathos  and  affection. 
Shortly  after  he  became  a  monk  she  called  upon  him. 
When  her  name  was  announced  he  was  walking  in 
the  garden.  He  turned  pale,  hesitated,  but  at  last, 
though  with  strong  emotion,  refused  to  see  her."  On 
hearing  of  his  decision,  the  affectionate  lady  burst 
into  tears,  for  something  seemed  to  tell  her  that  she 
would  never  more  see  him  on  earth 

The  "  Collegians/'  in  which  he  was  destined  to  live 
a  long  time,  was  written  in  his  25th  year,  and  the 
tragedy  of  "  Gisippus  "  five  years  earlier.  The  stories 
which  he  wrote  consist  of  three  series:  "  Tales  of  the 
Munster  Festivals,"  "Tales  of  the  Jury  Room"  and 
"Holland  Tide  Tales."  His  romances  are  three- — 
"The  Duke  of  Monmouth,"  "The  Invasion"  and 
"The  Collegians."  These,  with  his  plays  and  poems, 
comprise  ten  handsome  volumes  published  by  Sadlier 
&  Co.,  New  York.  As  a  poet  he  was  sensitive,  sweet, 
sympathetic  and  simple.  As  a  novelist  he  had  a 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  153 

genius  at  the  same  time  inventive,  plastic  and  bold. 
His  style  manifests  fancy  in  a  high  degree,  and  his 
strong  natural  passion  betrays  itself  very  powerfully 
in  many  scenes  of  the  "Collegians."  In  portraying 
Irish  life,  he  "  holds  the  mirror  up  to  nature."  In 
his  literary  career  he  acted  in  the  capacity  of  musical 
and  stage  critic,  was  employed  as  Parliamentary 
reporter,  and  considered  by  many  London  publishers 
as  a  consummate  literary  connoisseur. 

As  to  his  moral  strength  and  integrity,  the  elo- 
quent Henry  Giles  says:  " Perhaps  no  literary 
adventurer  ever  endured  more  hardships  in  the  same 
space  of  time  in  London  than  did  Gerald  Griffin,  and 
endured  them  with  less  moral  injury  to  his  personal 
or  literary  character.  He  kept  himself  free  from  all 
meanness,  from  low  companionship,  from  degrading 
habits,  and  came  out  of  the  trial  a  young  man  with 
home-born  purity  unsullied,  a  Christian  with  faith 
more  confirmed,  a  gentleman  unharmed  in  his  honor 
and  refinement,  a  writer  who  won  success  and  the 
public  by  his  own  independent  genius,  bearing  the 
triumph  with  true  and  graceful  modesty."  While 
blessed  with  the  self-reliance  of  Johnson,  he  was  en- 
tirely free  from  the  egotism  of  that  literary  lion. 
"It  is  strange,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "that  I've  never 
found  success  except  where  I  depended  solely  on 
my  own  exertions."  His  motto  was  "death  before 
failure."  Though  he  wrote  nothing  so  universally 


154  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

admired  as  the  " Deserted  Village"  or  the  "  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,"  he  possessed  nearly  as  much  ability  as 
Goldsmith,  without  being  burdened  by  any  of  his 
defects;  and,  according  to  most  writers,  he  was  supe- 
rior both  as  an  author  and  a  man  to  Dermody  and 
Crabbe. 

For  some  time  previous  to  1830  our  young  novelist 
entertained  an  idea  that  he  was  called  to  the  priest- 
hood, and  actually  made  preparations  to  enter  the 
Ecclesiastical  Seminary  at  Maynooth  for  that  end 
In  a  letter  to  his  parents,  on  the  banks  of  the  Sus- 
quehanna,  he  alludes  to  this  matter  as  follows: 

"  To  say  nothing  of  the  arguments  of  faith,  I  do  not  know 
any  station  in  life  in  which  a  man  can  do  so  much  good,  both 
for  others  and  himself,  as  in  that  of  a  Catholic  priest,  and  it 
gave  me  great  satisfaction  to  find  that  my  friends  in  America 
were  of  the  same  mind  with  me  on  this  point.  *  *  *  *  To 
say  that  Gerald,  the  novel  writer,  is  by  the  grace  of  God  really 
satisfied  to  lay  aside  for  ever  all  hope  of  that  fame  for  which  he 
was  once  sacrificing  health,  repose  and  pleasure,  and  to  offer 
himself  as  a  laborer  in  the  vineyard  of  Jesus  Christ.  That 
literary  reputation  has  become  a  worthless  trifle  to  him  to  whom 
it  was  once  almost  all;  and  that  he  feels  a  happiness  in  the 
thought  of  giving  all  to  God  is  such  a  merciful  favor  that  all 
the  fame  and  riches  in  the  world  dwindle  into  nothing  at  the 
thought  of  it." 

The  idea  of  becoming  a  priest,  however,  he  soon 
abandoned — partly,  perhaps,  through  motives  of 
humility — and  resolved  to  assume  the  humble  habit 


GEBALD   GRIFFIN.  155 

of  a  Christian  Brother.  His  brief  career  with  this 
exemplary  body  of  monks  was  very  happy,  and  on 
many  occasions  he  manifested  his  delight  with  his 
vocation.  At  the  instance  of  his  religious  superior, 
he  resumed  his  long-neglected  pen,  and  was  engaged 
on  a  religious  tale,  entitled  "  The  Holy  Island  "  when 
he  was  stricken  down  with  typhus  fever,  of  which  he 
died  at  the  North  Monastery  of  the  Brothers,  in  the 
City  of  Cork,  on  Friday,  June  12th,  1840.  In  the 
little  cemetery  of  this  Monastery  a  simple  headstone 
bearing  the  inscription  "Joseph" — his  name  in 
religion — still  marks  the  resting-place  of  the  author 
of  the  "Collegians,"  and  invites  the  passing  monk 
to  recite  a  De  Profundis  for  the  soul  of  Ireland's 
beloved  poet,  reposing  there  in  silence  and  solitude. 

O'BRAZIL,  THE  ISLE  OF  THE  BLEST. 

[A  spectre  island,  said  to  be  sometimes  visible  on  the  verge  of  the  western 
horizon  in  the  Atlantic,  from  the  Isles  of  Arran.  ] 

ON  the  ocean  that  hollows  the  rocks  where  ye  dwell, 
A  shadowy  land  has  appeared,  as  they  tell; 
Men  thought  it  a  region  of  sunshine  and  rest, 
And  they  called  it  O'Brazil— the  Isle  of  the  Blest. 
From  year  unto  year,  on  the  ocean's  blue  rim, 
The  beautiful  spectre  showed  lovely  and  dim; 
The  golden  clouds  curtained  the  deep  where  it  lay, 
And  it  looked  like  an  Eden,  away,  far  away! 

A  peasant  who  heard  of  the  wonderful  tale, 
In  the  breeze  of  the  orient,  loosened  his  sail; 


156  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

From  Ara,  the  holy,  he  turned  to  the  west, 
For  though  Ara  was  holy,  O'Brazil  was  blest. 
He  heard  not  the  voices  that  called  from  the  shore, 
He  heard  not  the  rising  winds'  menacing  roar; 
Home,  kindred  and  safety  he  left  on  that  day, 
And  he  sped  to  O'Brazil,  away,  far  away! 

Morn  rose  on  the  deep,  and  that  shadowy  Isle, 
O'er  the  faint  rim  of  distance  reflected  its  smile ; 
Noon  burned  on  the  wave,  and  that  shadowy  shore, 
Seemed  lovelily  distant,  and  faint  as  before: 
Lone  evening  came  down  on  the  wanderer's  track, 
And  to  Ara  again  he  looked  timidly  back ; 
Oh!  far  on  the  verge  of  the  ocean  it  lay, 
Yet  the  Isle  of  the  Blest  was  away,  far  away. 

Rash  dreamer,  return!    0  ye  winds  of  the  main, 
Bear  him  back  to  his  own  peaceful  Ara  again ; 
Rash  fool!  for  a  vision  of  fanciful  bliss, 
To  barter  thy  calm  life  of  labor  and  peace. 
The  warning  of  Reason  was  spoken  in  vain, 
He  never  re-visited  Ara  again; 
Night  fell  on  the  deep,  amidst  tempest  and  spray, 
And  he  died  on  the  waters,  away,  far  away! 

To  you,  gentle  friends,  need  I  pause  to  reveal 

The  lessons  of  prudence  my  verses  conceal  ? 

How  the  phantom  of  pleasure,  seen  distant  in  youth, 

Oft  lures  a  weak  heart  from  the  circle  of  truth, 

All  lovely  it  seems  like  that  shadowy  Isle, 

And  the  eye  of  the  wisest  is  caught  by  its  smile;  . 

But  ah !  for  the  heart  it  has  tempted  to  stray 

From  the  sweet  home  of  duty,  away,  far  away! 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  157 

Poor  friendless  adventurer !  vainly  might  he 
Look  back  to  green  Ara,  along  the  wild  sea; 
But  the  wandering  heart  has  a  guardian  above, 
Who,  though  erring,  remembers  the  child  of  his  love. 
Oh!  who  at  the  proffer  of  safety  would  spurn, 
When  all  that  he  asks  is  the  will  to  return  ? 
To  follow  a  phantom  from  day  unto  day, 
And  die  in  the  tempest,  away,  far  away! 

'TIS,  IT  IS  THE   SHANNON'S  STREAM. 

'Tis,  it  is  the  Shannon's  stream 

Brightly  glancing,  brightly  glancing! 
See,  oh  see  the  ruddy  beam 

Upon  its  waters  dancing ! 
Thus  returned  from  travel  vain, 
Years  of  exile,  years  of  pain, 
To  see  old  Shannon's  face  again, 

Oh,  the  bliss  entrancing! 
Hail!  our  own  majestic  stream, 

Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever, 
Silent  in  the  morning  beam, 

Our  own  beloved  river ! 

Fling  thy  rocky  portals  wide 

Western  ocean,  western  ocean; 
Bend  ye  hills  on  either  side, 

In  solemn,  deep  devotion; 
While  before  the  rising  gales 
On  his  heaving  surface  sails, 
Half  the  wealth  of  Erin's  vales 

With  undulating  motion. 


158  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Hail!  our  own  beloved  stream, 
Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever, 

Silent  in  the  morning  beam, 
Our  own  majestic  river! 

On  thy  bosom  deep  and  wide, 

Noble  river,  lordly  river, 
Royal  navies  safe  might  ride, 

Green  Erin's  lovely  river! 
Proud  upon  thy  banks  to  dwell, 
Let  me  ring  Ambition's  knell 
Lured  by  Hope's  illusive  spell 

Again  to  wander,  never. 
Hail!  our  own  romantic  stream, 

Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever, 
Silent  in  the  morning  beam, 

Our  own  majestic  river! 

Let  me,  from  thy  placid  course, 

Gentle  river,  mighty  river, 
Draw  such  truth  of  silent  force, 

As  sophist  uttered  never. 
Thus,  like  thee,  unchanging  still, 
With  tranquil  breast  and  ordered  will, 
My  heaven-appointed  course  fulfil, 

Undeviating  ever ! 
Hail !  our  own  majestic  stream 

Flowing  ever,  flowing  ever, 
Silent  in  the  morning  beam, 

Our  own  delightful  river! 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  159 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  MALAHIDE. 

[Of  the  monuments  most  worthy  of  notice  in  the  chapel  of  Malahide  is  an 
altar  tomb  surmounted  with  the  effigy,  in  bold  relief,  of  a  female  habited  in 
the  costume  of  the  14th  century,  and  representing  the  Honorable  Maude 
Plunket,  wife  of  Sir  Richard  Talbot.  She  had  been  previously  married  to 
Mr.  Hussey,  son  to  the  Baron  of  Galtrim,  who  was  slain  on  the  day  of  her 
nuptials,  leaving  her  the  singular  celebrity  of  having  been  "  A  maid,  wife 
and  widow,  on  the  same  day." — DaUon's  History  of  Drogheda.] 

THE  joy-bells  are  ringing  in  gay  Malahide; 

The  fresh  wind  is  singing  along  the  sea-side; 

The  maids  are  assembling  with  garlands  of  flowers, 

And  the  harpstrings  are  trembling  in  all  the  glad  bowers. 

Swell,  swell  the  gay  measure !  roll  trumpet  and  drum ! 
'Mid  greetings  of  pleasure  in  splendor  they  come ! 
The  chancel  is  ready,  the  portal  stands  wide 
For  the  lord  and  the  lady,  the  bridegroom  and  bride. 

What  years,  ere  the  latter,  of  earthly  delight 
The  future  shall  scatter  o'er  them  in  its  flight! 
What  blissful  caresses  shall  Fortune  bestow, 
Ere  those  dark-flowing  tresses  fall  white  as  the  snow! 

Before  the  high  altar  young  Maud  stands  array 'd; 
With  accents  that  falter  her  promise  is  made — 
From  father  and  mother  for  ever  to  part, 
For  him  and  no  other  to  treasure  her  heart. 

The  words  are  repeated,  the  bridal  is  done, 
The  rite  is  completed — the  two,  they  are  one; 
The  vow,  it  is  spoken  all  pure  from  the  heart, 
That  must  not  be  broken  till  life  shall  depart. 


160  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Hark !  'mid  the  gay  clangor  that  compass'd  their  car, 
Loud  accents  in  anger  come  mingling  afar ! 
The  foe's  on  the  border,  his  weapons  resound 
Where  the  lines  in  disorder  unguarded  are  found. 

As  wakes  the  good  shepherd,  the  watchful  and  bold, 
When  the  ounce  or  the  leopard  is  seen  in  the  fold, 
So  rises  already  the  chief  in  his  mail, 
While  the  new-married  lady  looks  fainting  and  pale. 

"  Son,  husband,  and  brother,  arise  to  the  strife, 
For  the  sister  and  mother,  for  children  and  wife! 
O'er  hill  and  o'er  hollow,  o'er  mountain  and  plain, 
Up,  true  men,  and  follow!  let  dastards  remain!" 

Farrah !  to  the  battle !  they  form  into  line — 

The  shields,  how  they  rattle!  the  spears,  how  they  shine! 

Soon,  soon  shall  the  foeman  his  treachery  rue — 

On,  burgher  and  yeoman,  to  die  or  to  do! 

The  eve  is  declining  in  low  Malahide, 
The  maidens  are  twining  gay  wreaths  for  the  bride; 
She  marks  them  unheeding — her  heart  is  afar, 
Where  the  clansmen  are  bleeding  for  her  in  the  war. 

Hark!  loud  from  the  mountain, 'tis  Victory's  cry) 
O'er  woodland  and  fountain  it  rings  to  the  sky ! 
The  foe  has  retreated !  he  flies  to  the  shore ; 
The  spoiler's  defeated — the  combat  is  o'er! 

With  foreheads  unruffled  the  conqueror  come — 
But  why  have  they  muffled  the  lance  and  the  drum  ? 
What  form  do  they  carry  aloft  on  his  shield  ? 
And  where  does  he  tarry,  the  lord  of  the  field  ? 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  161 

Ye  saw  him  at  morning  how  gallant  and  gay ! 
In  bridal  adorning  the  star  of  the  day: 
Now  weep  for  the  lover — his  triumph  is  sped ; 
His  hope  it  is  over !  the  chieftain  is  dead ! 

But,  oh  for  the  maiden  who  mourns  for  that  chief, 
With  heart  overladen  and  rending  with  grief ! 
She  sinks  on  the  meadow — in  one  morning-tide, 
A  wife  and  a  widow,  a  maid  and  a  bride! 

Ye  maidens  attending,  forbear  to  condole! 
Your  comfort  is  rending  the  depths  of  her  soul. 
True — true,  'twas  a  story  for  ages  of  pride; 
He  died  in  his  glory — but,  oh,  he  has  died! 

The  war  cloak  she  raises  all  mournfully  now, 
And  steadfastly  gazes  upon  the  cold  brow. 
That  glance  may  for  ever  unaltered  remain, 
But  the  bridegroom  will  never  return  it  again. 

The  dead-bells  are  tolling  in  sad  Malahide, 

The  death- wail  is  rolling  along  the  sea-side; 

The  crowds,  heavy-hearted,  withdraw  from  the  green, 

For  the  sun  has  departed  that  brighten'd  the  scene ! 

Ev'n  yet  in  that  valley,  though  years  have  rolPd  by, 
When  through  the  wild  sally  the  sea-breezes  sigh, 
The  peasant,  with  sorrow,  beholds  in  the  shade 
The  tomb  where  the  morrow  saw  Hussey  convey 'd» 

How  scant  was  the  warning,  how  briefly  reveal'd, 
Before  on  that  morning  death's  chalice  was  fill'd! 
The  hero  that  drunk  it  there  moulders  in  gloom, 
And  the  form  of  Maude  Plunket  weeps  over  his  tomb. 

12 


162  IEISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

The  stranger  who  wanders  along  the  lone  vale 
Still  sighs  when  he  ponders  on  that  heavy  tale; 
1 '  Thus  passes  each  pleasure  that  earth  can  supply — 
Thus  jo^  has  its  measure— we  live  but  to  die!" 

WHEN  FILLED  WITH  THOUGHTS  OF  LIFE'S  YOUNG 

DAY. 

WHEN  filled  with  thoughts  of  life's  young  day, 

Alone  in  distant  climes  I  roam, 
And  year  on  year  has  rolled  away 

Since  last  we  view'd  our  own  dear  home, 
Oh,  then,  at  evening's  silent  hour, 
In  chamber  lone,  or  moonlit  bow'r, 
How  sad,  on  memory's  listening  ear, 
Come  long  lost  voices  sounding  near— 
Like  the  wild  chime  of  village  bells 
Heard  far  away  in  mountain  dells. 
But,  oh!  for  him  let  kind  hearts  grieve, 

His  term  of  youth  and  exile  o'er, 
Who  sees  in  life's  declining  eve, 

With  alter'd  eyes,  his  native  shore! 
With  aching  heart  and  weary  brain, 
Who  treads  those  lonesome  scenes  again! 
When  first  he  knew  those  ruin'd  bow'rs, 
And  hears  in  every  passing  gale 
Some  best  affection's  dying  wail. 
Oh,  say,  what  spell  of  power  serene 

Can  cheer  that  hour  of  sharpest  pain, 
And  turn  to  peace  the  anguish  keen 

That  deeplier  wounds,  because  in  vain? 
'T  is  not  the  thought  of  glory  won, 
Of  hoarded  gold  or  pleasures  gone, 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  163 

But  one  bright  course,  from  earliest  youth, 
Of  changeless  faith — unbroken  truth, 
These  turn  to  gold  the  vapors  dun 
That  close  on  life's  descending  sun. 

FOR  I  AM  DESOLATE. 

THE  Christmas  light  is  burning  bright 

In  many  a  village  pane, 
And  many  a  cottage  rings  to-night 

With  many  a  merry  strain. 
Young  boys  and  girls  run  laughing  by, 

Their  hearts  and  eyes  elate — 
I  can  but  think  on  mine,  and  sigh, 

For  I  am  desolate. 

There's  none  to  watch  in  our  old  cot, 

Beside  the  holy  light, 
No  tongue  to  bless  the  silent  spot 

Against  the  parting  night, 
I've  closed  the  door,  and  hither  come 

To  mourn  my  lonely  fate ; 
I  cannot  bear  my  own  old  home, 

It  is  so  desolate ! 

I  saw  my  father's  eye  grow  dim, 

And  clasp'd  my  mother's  knee; 
I  saw  my  mother  follow  him — 

My  husband  wept  with  me. 
My  husband  did  not  long  remain — 

His  child  was  left  me  yet; 
But  now  my  heart's  last  love  is  slain, 

And  I  am  desolate ! 


164  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

MY  MARY  OF  THE  CURLING  HAIR. 
MY  Mary  of  the  curling  hair, 
The  laughing  teeth  and  bashful  air, 
Our  bridal  morn  is  dawning  fair, 
With  blushes  in  the  skies. 

Come!  come!  come,  my  darling — 
Come  softly,  and  come,  my  love! 
My  love !  my  pearl ! 
My  own  dear  girl ! 
My  mountain  maid,  arise! 

Wake ,  linnet  of  the  osier  grove ! 
Wake,  trembling,  stainless,  virgin  dove! 
Wake,  nestling  of  a  parent's  love! 
Let  Moran  see  thine  eyes. 

Come,  come,  etc. 

I  am  no  stranger,  proud  and  gay, 
To  win  thee  from  thy  home  away, 
And  find  thee,  for  a  distant  day, 
A  theme  for  wasting  sighs. 

Come,  come,  etc. 

But  we  were  known  from  infancy, 
Thy  father's  hearth  was  home  to  me, 
No  selfish  love  was  mine  for  thee, 
Unholy  and  unwise. 

Come,  come,  etc. 

And  yet,  (to  see  what  love  can  do!) 
Though  calm  my  hope  has  burned,  and  true, 
My  cheek  is  pale  and  worn  for  you, 
And  sunken  are  mine  eyes! 

Come,  come,  etc. 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  165 

But  soon  my  love  shall  be  my  bride, 
And  happy  by  our  own  fireside  ; 
My  veins  shall  feel  the  rosy  tide 
That  lingering  hope  denies. 

Come,  come,  etc. 

My  Maiy  of  the  curling  hair, 
The  laughing  teeth  and  bashful  air, 
Our  bridal  morn  is  dawning  fair, 
With  blushes  in  the  skies. 

Come  !  come  !  come  ,  my  darling  — 
Come  softly!  and  come,  my  love! 
My  love  !  my  pearl  ! 
My  own  dear  girl  ! 
My  mountain  maid,  arise! 

GILLE  MA  CHREE. 

Gille  ma  chree,* 

Sit  down  by  me  ; 
We  now  are  joined  and  ne'er  shall  sever: 

This  hearth's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  for  ever! 

When  I  was  poor, 

Your  father's  door 
Was  closed  against  your  constant  lover; 

With  care  and  pain, 

I  tried  in  vain 
My  fortunes  to  recover. 


Brightener  of  my  heart. 


^ 


166  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

I  said,  "  To  other  lands  I'll  roam, 
Where  Fate  may  smile  on  me,  love;" 

I  said,  ' '  Farewell,  my  own  old  home ! " 
And  I  said,  "  Farewell  to  thee,  love!" 

Sing,  Gille  ma  chree,  etc. 

I  might  have  said, 
My  mountain  maid, 

Come  live  with  me,  your  own  true  lover: 
I  know  a  spot, 
A  silent  cot, 

Your  friends  can  ne'er  discover, 
Where  gently  flows  the  waveless  tide 

By  one  small  garden  only; 
Where  the  heron  waves  his  wings  so  wide, 
And  the  linnet  sings  so  lonely ! 

Sing,  Gille  ma  chree,  etc. 

I  might  have  said, 
My  mountain  maid, 
A  father's  right  was  never  given 
True  hearts  to  curse 
With  tyrant  force 
That  have  been  blest  in  heaven. 
But  then  I  said,  "  In  after  years, 

When  thoughts  of  home  shall  find  her, 
My  love  may  mourn  with  secret  tears 
Her  friends  thus  left  behind  her. " 

Sing,  Gille  ma  chree,  etc. 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  167 

"  Oh  no,"  I  said; 
"  My  own  dear  maid, 
For  me,  though  all  forlorn  for  ever, 
That  heart  of  thine 
Shall  ne'er  repine 
O'er  slighted  duty — never. 
From  home  and  thee,  though  wandering  far, 

A  dreamy  fate  be  mine,  love — 
I'd  rather  live  in  endless  war, 

Than  buy  my  peace  with  thine,  love." 

Sing,  Gille  ma  chree,  etc. 

Far,  far  away, 

By  night  and  day, 
I  toiled  to  win  a  golden  treasure; 

And  golden  gains 

Repaid  my  pains 
In  fair  and  shining  measure. 
I  sought  again  my  native  land, 

Thy  father  welcomed  me,  love; 
I  poured  my  gold  into  his  hand 

And  my  guerdon  found  in  thee,  love. 

Sing,  Gille  ma  chree, 

Sit  down  by  me ; 
We  are  joined  and  ne'er  shall  sever: 

This  hearth's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  for  ever. 


168  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

A  PLACE  IN   THY  MEMORY,  DEAREST. 

A  PLACE  in  thy  memory,  dearest, 

Is  all  that  I  claim, 
To  pause  and  look  back  when  thou  hearest 

The  sound  of  my  name. 
Another  may  woo  thee,  nearer. 

Another  may  win  and  wear; 
I  care  not  though  he  be  dearer, 

If  I  am  remembered  there. 

Remember  me — not  as  a  lover 

Whose  hope  was  cross'd, 
Whose  bosom  can  never  recover 

The  light  it  hath  lost; 
As  the  young  bride  remembers  the  mother 

She  loves,  though  she  never  may  see; 
As  a  sister  remembers  a  brother, 

O  dearest!  remember  me. 

Could  I  be  thy  true  lover,  dearest, 

Could'st  thou  smile  on  rne, 
I  would  be  the  fondest  and  nearest 

That  ever  loved  thee ! 
But  a  cloud  on  my  pathway  is  glooming, 

That  never  must  burst  upon  thine ; 
And  Heaven,  that  made  thee  all  blooming, 

Ne'er  made  thee  to  wither  on  mine. 

Remember  me,  then! — oh,  remember, 

My  calm,  light  love; 
Though  bleak  as  the  blasts  of  November 

My  life  may  prove, 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  169 

That  life  will,  though  lonely,  be  sweet, 

If  its  brightest  enjoyment  should  be 
A  smile  and  kind  word  when  we  meet, 

And  a  place  in  thy  memory. 

LINES   ADDRESSED   TO   A  SEAGULL, 

SEEN   OFF   THE   CLIFFS   OF   MOHER,  IN   THE   COUNTY   OF   CLARE. 

WHITE  bird  of  the  tempest!  oh,  beautiful  thing, 
With  the  bosom  of  snow,  and  the  motionless  wing 
Now  sweeping  the  billow,  now  floating  on  high, 
Now  bathing  thy  plumes  in  the  light  of  the  sky  • 
Now  poising  o'er  ocean  thy  delicate  form. 
Now  breasting  the  surge  with  thy  bosom  so  warm, 
Now  darting  aloft,  with  a  heavenly  scorn, 
Now  shooting  along,  like  a  ray  of  the  morn; 
Now  lost  in  the  folds  of  the  cloud-curtained  dome, 
Now  floating  abroad  like  a  flake  of  the  foam ; 
Now  silently  poised  o'er  the  war  of  the  main, 
Like  the  spirit  of  charity,  brooding  o'er  pain; 
Now  gliding  with  pinion,  all  silently  furled, 
Like  an  Angel  descending  to  comfort  the  world  I 
Thou  seem'st  to  my  spirit,  as  upward  I  gaze, 
And  see  thee,  now  clothed  in  mellowest  rays; 
Now  lost  in  the  storm-driven  vapors  that  fly, 
Like  hosts  that  are  routed  across  the  broad  sky ! 
Like  a  pure  spirit,  true  to  its  virtue  and  faith, 
'Mid  the  tempests  of  nature,  of  passion,  and  death! 

Rise !  beautiful  emblem  of  purity  I  rise 

On  the  sweet  winds  of  heaven,  to  thine  own  brilliant  skies 

Still  higher!  still  higher!  till  lost  to  our  sight, 

Thou  hidest  thy  wings  in  a  mantle  of  light; 


170  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

• 

And  I  think  how  a  pure  spirit  gazing  on  thee, 
Must  long  for  the  moment — the  joyous  and  free — 
When  the  soul,  disembodied  from  nature,  shall  spring, 
Unfettered,  at  once  to  her  maker  and  king; 
When,  the  bright  day  of  service  and  suffering  past, 
Shapes  fairer  than  thine  shall  shine  round  her  at  last, 
While  the  standard  of  battle  triumphantly  furled, 
She  smiles  like  a  victor,  serene  on  the  world! 

A  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GERALD  GRIFFIN, 

BY  THOMAS   D'ARCY   M'GEE. 


[Written  during  the  author's  visit  to  Ireland  in  March,  1855.] 


WHEN  night  surrounds  the  sun,  and  the  day  dies, 

Leaving  to  darkness  for  its  hour  the  skies, 

Nought  has  the  heart  of  man  thence  to  deplore — 

The  day  lived  long,  was  fruitful,  is  no  more; 

But  when  the  hurricane  at  noon  o'erspreads 

The  orb  divine,  which  life  and  gladness  sheds, 

Or  some  disorder'd  planet  rolls  between 

The  sun  and  earth,  darkling  the  verdant  green, 

Eclipsing  ocean,  shadowing  like  a  pall 

The  busy  town, — men,  discontented  all, 

By  sea  and  land,  anxiously  pause  and  pray 

For  the  returning  giver  of  the  day— 

So  have  bright  spirits  been  eclipsed  and  lost, 

Forever  dark,  if  by  Death's  shadow  cross'd. 

In  Munster's  beauteous  city  died  a  man 
As  'twere  but  yesterday,  whose  course  began 
In  clouded  and  in  cheerless  morning  guise — 
Had  climb'd  the  summit  of  his  native  skies, 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  171 

• 

And,  as  he  rose,  brighter  and  fairer  grew, 

Beneath  his  influence,  every  scene  he  knew. 

His  country  hail'd  him  as  a  Saviour,  given 

To  chronicle  past  times;  when  'mid  the  heaven 

Of  expectation  and  achievement,  lo! 

A  monastery's  gate — therein  the  Bard  doth  go, 

And  sees  the  children  of  the  poor  around 

Feed  on  the  knowledge  elsewhere  yet  unfound. 

The  Poet,  then,  his  former  tasks  foreswore, 

Vowing  himself  to  charity  evermore, — 

Folded  his  wings  of  light — cast  his  fresh  bays  aside — 

His  friends  beloved  abjured,  abjured  his  pride, 

There  lived  and  labor'd,  and  there  early  died 

Short  was  his  day  of  labor,  but  its  morn 

Prolific  was  of  beauty;  thoughts  were  born 

In  his  heart's  secret  spots,  which  grew,  attended 

By  a  fine  sense — instinct  and  reason  blended — 

Till,  like  a  spring,  they  spread  his  haunts  with  glory, 

O'er-arched  their  streams,  upraised  their  hills  in  story, 

Fixed  the  broad  Shannon  in  its  course  forever, 

And  bade  it  flow  for  aye,  a  genius-haunted  river. 

Ye  men  of  Munster,  guard  his  sleep  serene! 
Spirits  of  such  bright  order  are  not  seen 
But  once  in  generations.     He  was  an  echo,  dwelling 
Amid  your  mountains,  all  their  secrets  telling, 
Their  mem'ries,  their  traditions,  and  their  wrongs, 
The  story  of  their  sins — the  music  of  their  songs, 
Their  tempests,  and  their  terrors,  and  the  forms 
They  bring  forth,  impregnated  by  the  storms. 


172  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

He  knew  the  voices  of  your  rivers,  knew 

Every  deep  chasm  they  leap  or  murmur  through, — 

Blindfold,  at  midnight,  by  their  sounds  could  tell 

Their  names  and  their  descent  o'er  cliff  and  dell. 

Oh!  men  of  Munster,  since  the  ancient  time, 

Ye  have  not  met  such  loss  as  in  this  monk  sublime ) 

The  second  summer's  grass  was  on  his  grave, 

When  to  his  memory  Melpomene  gave 

A  laurel  wreath  wove  from  the  self -same  tree 

That  shades  Boccaccio's  dust  perennially; 

Fair  were  the  smiles  her  mournful  glances  met 

In  woman's  lovely  eyes,  with  heart 's-dew  wet, 

And  many  voices  loudly  cried,  "  Well  done!" 

As  the  sad  goddess  crown'd  her  lifeless  son. 

Oh,  ever  thus:  Death  strikes  the  gifted,  then 

Come  the  worms — inquests — and  the  award  of  men ! 

Low  in  your  grave,  young  Gerald  Griffin,  sleep; 

You  never  looked  on  him  who  now  doth  weep 

Above  your  resting-place — yon  never  heard 

The  voice  that  oft  has  echo'd  eveiy  word 

Dropped  from  your  pen  of  light — sleep  on,  sleep  on — 

I  would  I  knew  you,  yet  not — now  you  are  gone! 


REV.  CHARLES   WOLFE, 
AUTHOR  OF  "THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE." 

~KE  Ingram  and  Gray  the  Rev.  Charles  Wolfe 
is  known  to  the  world  as  the  author  of  a 
single  song.  "The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore"  has 
made  his  name  immortal. 

He  was  born  in  the  city  of  Dublin  in  the  year 
1791.  His  parents  were  people  of  means,  and  his 
family  not  without  distinction  both  in  Ireland  and 
America.  The  brilliant  but  ill-fated  Wolfe  Tone  and 
the  hero  of  Quebec  were  closely  allied  to  his  family, 
and  others  of  the  same  name  and  lineage  subse- 
quently became  distinguished  in  the  annals  of  Irish 
history.  In  1809  Charles  Wolfe  entered  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  after  having  spent  some  years  of 
preparation  at  school  in  England. 

His  poetic  genius  was  first  revealed  to  the  faculty 
of  the  University  by  the  excellence  of  a  Latin  class- 
poem  which  he  wrote  during  the  early  part  of  his 
second  year.  But  the  composition  which  brought 
him  prominently  into  public  favor  was  the  ode  on 
the  burial  of  Sir  John  Moore.  Lord  Byron,  seeing 
this  poem,  pronounced  it  "  the  very  best  of  its  kind 
which  the  present  prolific  age  has  brought  forth." 

(173) 


174  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

"  Medwin's  Conversations  of  Byron/'  relating  a 
critical  discussion  that  arose  between  Byron,  Shelley 
and  other  literary  men  of  their  time,  has  the  following 
passages : 

The  conversation,  after  dinner,  turned  on  the  lyrical  poetry 
of  the  day,  and  a  question  arose  as  to  which  was  the  most  per- 
fect ode  that  had  been  produced  in  the  English  language. 
Shelly  contended  for  Coleridge's  on  Switzerland,  beginning — 
"  Ye  Clouds,"  etc.  Others  named  some  of  Moore's  Irish  Melo- 
dies and  Campbell's  "  Hohenlinden;"  and  had  Lord  Byron  not 
been  present,  the  Invocation  in  "  Manfred"  or  the  Ode  to  Napo- 
leon might  have  been  cited. 

11  Like  Gray,"  said  Byron,  "  Campbell  smells  too  much  of  the 
oil;  he  is  never  satisfied  with  what  he  does;  his  finest  things 
have  been  spoiled  by  the  '  labor  of  the  file.'  Like  paintings, 
poems  may  be  too  highly  finished.  The  great  art  is  effect,  no 
matter  how  produced.  I  will  show  you  an  ode  you  have  never 
seen,  that  I  consider  the  very  best  which  the  present  prolific 
age  has  brought  forth."  With  this  he  left  the  table,  almost 
before  the  cloth  was  removed ,  and  soon  returned  with  a  maga- 
zine from  which  he  read  the  lines  on  Sir  John  Moore's  burial. 
The  feeling  with  which  he  recited  these  admirable  stanzas  I 
I  shall  never  forget.  After  he  had  come  to  the  end  he  repeated 
the  third,  and  said  it  was  perfect,  particularly  the  lines: 

"  But  he  lay,  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

"  I  should  have  taken  the  whole,"  said  Shelley,  "  for  a  rough 
sketch  of  Campbell's." 

"  No/'  replied  Byron;  "  Campbell  would  have  claimed  it  if  it 
had  been  his. " 


BEY.    CHAKLES   ^YOLFE.  175 

The  account  of  Sir  John  Moore's  burial  which 
inspired  our  author  to  write  this  poem  was  first 
printed  in  a  Scotch  paper,  and  runs  thus: 

Sir  John  Moore  had  often  said  that,  if  he  was  killed  in 
battle,  he  wished  to  be  buried  where  he  fell.  The  body  was 
removed  at  midnight  to  the  citadel  of  Corunna,  A  grave  was 
dug  for  him  on  the  rampart  there,  by  a  party  of  the  Ninth 
Regiment,  the  aides-de-camp  attending  by  turns.  No  coffin 
could  be  procured,  and  the  officers  of  his  staff  wrapped  the  body, 
dressed  as  it  was,  in  a  military  cloak  and  blankets.  The  inter- 
ment was  hastened,  for  about  eight  in  the  morning  some  firing 
was  heard,  and  the  officers  feared  that  if  a  serious  attack  were 
made,  they  should  be  ordered  away  and  not  suffered  to  pay 
him  their  last  duty.  The  officers  of  his  staff  bore  him  to  the 
grave.  The  funeral  service  was  read  by  the  chaplain  and  the 
corpse  was  covered  with  earth. 

This  is  the  simple  narrative  that  produced  the 
impression  which  prompted  and  enabled  Wolfe  to 
write  his  famous  poem.  His  biographer,  Archdeacon 
Russell  of  Clogher,  informs  us  that  it  found  its  way 
into  print  without  the  knowledge  of  its  author. 

"It  was,"  he  goes  on  to  say,  " recited  by  a  friend 
in  presence  of  a  gentleman  traveling  toward  the 
North  of  Ireland,  who  was  so  much  struck  with  it 
that  he  requested  and  obtained  a  copy,  and,  imme- 
diately after,  it  appeared  in  the  Newry  Telegraph  with 
the  initials  of  the  author's  name.  From  that  it  was 
copied  into  most  of  the  London  prints,  and  thence 
into  the  Dublin  papers,  and  subsequently  it  appeared 


176  IKISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS. 

with  some  considerable  errors  in  the  Edinburgh 
Annual  Register,  which  contained  the  narrative  that 
first  kindled  the  poet's  feelings  on  the  subject,  and 
supplied  the  materials  to  his  mind." 

Besides  these  given  in  this  volume  Wolfe  wrote 
many  other  pieces  of  lesser  note.  He  was  ordained 
a  minister  of  the  Anglican  Church,  in  1817,  and 
appointed  to  a  living  in  Donoughmore,  within  the 
jurisdiction  of  Armagh.  Here  he  lived  for  some 
years,  devoting  a  good  deal  of  his  time  to  the  study  of 
Irish  authors,  and  preaching  when  it  came  his  turn 
to  do  so.  Ireland's  great  lyrist,  Tom  Moore,  was  his 
favorite  poet,  and  it  is  said  that  there  were  very  few 
contemporaries  who  possessed  a  keener  appreciation 
of  the  Irish  Melodies  than  did  the  Rev.  Charles 
Wolfe. 

After  a  few  short  years  in  the  ministry,  he  became 
the  victim  of  consumption,  which  in  a  brief  space 
closed  a  career  that  opened  with  the  promise  of  much 
more  than  was  ever  realized. 

With  the  fond  hope  of  prolonging  his  life  he  left 
Donoughmore  and  went  southward  to  that  beautiful 
watering-place  called,  in  those  days,  the  Cove  of  Cork. 
Even  the  balmy  air  of  Munster  could  not  restore  his 
wasted  strength  or  retard  the  progress  of  the  fatal 
disease.  He  died  at  Cove  in  1823,  and  was  buried 
in  the  neighboring  churchyard  of  Clonmel  Parish, 
where  his  grave  is  almost  entirely  neglected.  Is  the 


REV.   CHARLES  WOLFE.  177 

spirit  of  utilitarianism  creeping  into  Ireland  that  his 
countrymen  should  neglect  the  final  resting-place  of 
this  gentle  poet?  Alas!  such  is  the  common  fate  of 
genius ! 

The  following  lines  are  from  the  pen  of  an 
American  poetess,  Mrs.  S.  M.  B.  Piatt,  the  accom- 
plished wife  of  our  Consul  at  Cork.  She  was  natur- 
ally surprised  that  a  people  proverbially  so  fond  of 
poetry  should  neglect  the  grave  of  one  whose  name 
has  reflected  credit  on  his  native  land: 

AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  REV.  CHARLES  WOLFE. 

WHERE  graves  were  many,  we  looked  for  one- 

Oh,  the  Irish  rose  was  red — 
And  the  dark  stones  saddened  the  setting  sun 

With  the  names  of  the  early  dead. 
Then  a  child  who,  somehow,  had  heard  of  him 

In  the  land  we  love  so  well, 
Kept  lifting  the  grass  till  the  dew  was  dim 

In  the  churchyard  of  Clonmel. 

But  the  sexton  came.     "  Can  you  tell  us  where 

Charles  Wolfe  is  buried ? "     "I  can. 
See,  that  is  his  grave  in  the  corner  there — 

Aye,  he  was  a  clever  man, 
If  God  had  spared  him !     It's  many  that  come 

To  be  asking  for  him/'  said  he; 
But  the  boy  kept  whispering  ' '  Not  a  drum 

Was  heard,"  in  the  dusk  to  me. 

13 


178  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Then  the  gray  man  tore  a  vine  from  the  wall 

Of  the  roofless  church  where  he  lay , 
And  the  leaves  that  the  withering  year  let  fall, 

He  swept  with  the 'ivy  away. 
And,  as  we  read  on  the  rock  the  words 

That,  writ  in  the  moss,  we  found, 
Right  over  his  bosom  a  shower  of  birds 

In  music  fell  to  the  ground. 

Young  poet,  I  wonder  did  you  care — 

Did  it  move  you  in  your  rest — 
To  hear  that  child  in  his  golden  hair, 

From  the  mighty  woods  of  the  West, 
Repeating  your  verse  of  his  own  sweet  will 

To  the  sound  of  the  twilight  bell, 
Years  after  your  beating  heart  was  still 

In  the  churchyard  of  Clonmel  ? 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

NOT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  ramparts  we  hurried; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay,  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest. 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 


REV.   CHARLES   WOLFE.  179 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought  as  we  hollow'd  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him; 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him ! 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour4  for  re  tiling, 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

IF   I   HAD  THOUGHT. 

IF  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be: 


180  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

It  never  through  my  mind  had  pass'd 
The  time  would  e'er  be  o'er, 

And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 
And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more. 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 

And  think  't  will  smile  again; 
And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook 

That  I  must  look  in  vain. 
But,  when  I  speak,  thou  dost  not  say 

What  thou  ne'er  left  unsaid; 
And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 

Sweet  Mary !  thou  art  dead. 

If  thou  would'st  stay  e'en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene, 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been! 
While  e'en  thy  chill  bleak  corse  I  have, 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own; 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave 

And  I  am  now  alone ! 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me; 
And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart 

In  thinking,  too,  of  thee. 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before , 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore. 


REV.   CHARLES   WOLFE.  181 


OH!   SAY  NOT  THAT. 

OH  !  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold 

To  aught  that  once  could  warm  it, 
That  nature's  form,  so  dear  of  old, 

No  more  has  power  to  charm  it; 
Or  that  th'  ungenerous  world  can  chill 

One  glow  of  fond  emotion 
For  those  who  made  it  dearer  still, 

And  shared  its  wild  devotion. 

Still  oft  those  solemn  scenes  I  view 

In  rapt  and  dreamy  sadness — 
Oft  look  on  those  who  loved  them,  too, 

With  fancy's  idle  gladness. 
Again  I  long  to  view  the  light 

In  nature's  features  glowing, 
Again  to  tread  the  mountain's  height, 

And  taste  the  soul's  o'erflowing. 

Stern  Duty  rose  and  frowning  flung 

Her  leaden  chain  around  me; 
With  iron  look  and  sullen  tongue 

He  muttered  as  he  bound  me: 
"  The  mountain  breeze,  the  boundless  heaven 

Unfit  for  toil  the  creature; 
These  for  the  free  alone  are  given, 

But  what  have  slaves  with  Nature  ?' 


182  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

GO!    FORGET   ME. 

Go!  forget  me,  why  should  sorrow 
O'er  that  brow  a  shadow  fling  ? 

Go!  forget  me — and  to-morrow 
Brightly  smile,  and  sweetly  sing. 

Smile — though  I  shall  not  be  near  thee; 

Sing — though  I  shall  never  hear  thee. 

May  thy  soul  with  pleasure  shine, 

Lasting  as  the  gloom  of  mine. 

Like  the  sun,  thy  presence  glowing, 

Clothes  the  meanest  things  in  light; 
And  when  thou,  like  him,  art  going, 

Loveliest  objects  fade  in  night. 
All  things  looked  so  bright  about  thee, 
That  they  nothing  seem  without  thee. 
By  that  pure  and  lucid  mind 
Earthly  things  were  too  refined. 

Go!  thou  vision,  wildly  gleaming, 

Softly  on  my  soul  that  fell, 
Go!  for  me  no  longer  beaming, 

Hope  and  beauty,  fare  ye  well' 
Go !  and  all  that  once  delighted 
Take — and  leave  me,  all  benighted, 
Glory's  burning  gen'rous  swell, 
Fancy  and  the  poet's  shell. 


CHARLES  GRAHAM  HALPINE. 


CHARLES   GRAHAM   HALPINE 

POET,  EDITOR    AND    SOLDIER. 

;LDCASTLE,  in  the  County  Meath,  Ireland,  is 
the  birth-place  of  the  subject  of  this  memoir. 
The  Halpines  originally  belonged  to  County  Louth, 
where  the  Clan  Halpine  held  an  honorable  place 
among  the  well-to-do  farmers  for  many  generations. 
Nicholas  Halpine,  the  father  of  the  future  litterateur, 
was  educated  at  old  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and, 
after  graduation,  became  a  minister  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church.  Appointed  to  a  living  near  Oldcas- 
tle,  he  resided  there  for  many  years;  and  there  his 
oldest  son,  Charles,  first  drew  vital  breath,  in  the 
year  1829.  When  this  boy  was  eleven  years  old  the 
Rev.  Nicholas  Halpine,  growing  weary  of  country 
life,  moved  to  Dublin  where  he  became  editor-in- 
chief  of  the  Evening  Mail,  at  that  time  the  organ  of 
Protestantism  in  Ireland.  Young  Charles  accom- 
panied his  father  to  the  metropolis,  and,  having 
attained  the  proper  age,  entered  Trinity  College, 
where  he  became  not  only  very  popular  with  the 
students  but  also  a  distinguished  classical  scholar  and 
a  linguist  of  no  mean  parts.  Having  finished  his 
course  at  the  University  he  graduated  with  honor, 

(188) 


184  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

and  then  turned  his  mind  for  some  time  to  the  study 
of  medicine.  This  he  discovered  to  be  very  uncon- 
genial to  his  taste  and  talent,  and,  for  another  short 
period,  his  attention  was  given  to  the  study  of  Black- 
stone.  But  law  proved  as  distasteful  to  him  as 
medicine.  The  natural  bent  of  his  mind  was  tow- 
ards literature,  and  most  of  his  after  years  were  de- 
voted to  writing  for  the  press. 

When  only  nineteen  years  of  age  he  married  an 
amiable  and  accomplished  Irish  lady,  and  thought 
for  a  while  of  leading  a  quiet  life  in  his  native  land. 
Assiduously  devoting  himself  to  journalism  he  found 
a  ready  market  for  his  work  both  in  London  arid 
Dublin.  His  poetic  contributions  were  always  in 
high  demand  at  the  offices  of  the  English  periodicals, 
and  the  Irish  newspapers  cheerfully  paid  for  his 
prose  articles  on  the  issues  of  the  time. 

But  the  Greater  Ireland  was  rising  in  the  West, 
young,  vigorous  and  progressive.  The  priests,  phy- 
sicians and  poets  of  the  Gael  were  following  the  Star 
of  Empire  in  the  track  of  the  great  Irish  exodus; 
and  Halpine,  young  and  hopeful,  was  drawn  into  the 
current  and  swept  along  by  the  outgoing  tide. 

Reaching  New  York  in  the  summer  of  1852,  about 
the  same  time  as  his  college-mate  Fitz-James  O'Brien, 
he  became  connected  with  the  New  York  Herald. 
His  large  literary  attainments  and  prolific  genius  in 
a  short  time  asserted  themselves  and  enabled  him  to 


CHARLES   GRAHAM   HALPINE.  185 

take  a  prominent  place  among'  the  distinguished 
writers  of  the  country.  The  leading  journals  through- 
out the  Union  paid  him  handsomely  for  articles  on 
various  subjects.  For  some  great  daily  he  wrote  a 
leader  on  the  politics  of  the  time;  to  some  leading 
weekly  he  contributed  a  stirring  song  brimful  of 
Irish  wit,  and  for  one  or  other  of  the  high-standard 
monthlies  he  translated  some  short  story  that  was 
going  the  rounds  of  the  French,  Italian  or  German 
press. 

After  a  few  busy  and  successful  years  spent  in 
New  York,  Mr.  Halpine  went  down  to  the  metropolis 
of  New  England  to  occupy  the  editorial  chair  of 
the  Boston  Post.  Having  infused  new  blood  and 
vigor  into  the  old  journal  and  given  it  a  long  lease 
of  life,  he  formed  a  partnership  with  the  poet  Shilla- 
ber,  and  started  a  comic  paper  called  the  Carpet 
Bag.  This  literary  venture  did  not  prove  a  pecu- 
niary success,  however,  and  Halpine  returned  to  New 
York  where  he  was  immediately  installed  as  asso- 
ciate editor  of  the  Times. 

In  1858  Mr.  John  Clancy  and  our  author  com- 
menced the  publication  of  the  Leader,  which  in  a 
short  time,  under  their  joint  control,  became  a  jour- 
nal not  alone  of  great  influence  in  politics,  but 
also  a  high-grade  literary  paper.  In  the  office  of 
the  Leader  Mr.  Halpine  labored  assiduously  until 
Col.  Michael  Corcoran  began  to  recruit  for  the 


186  IBLSH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

famous  Sixty-ninth,  when  he  joined  his  fellow- 
countrymen  and  went  South  to  defend  the  Union. 

A  lover  of  freedom  and  member  of  the  Young 
Irelanders  at  home  in  his  native  land,  he  naturally 
hated  slavery  in  his  adopted  country,  and  his  pen 
did  effective  service  in  the  cause  of  Abolition. 

When  Anthony  Burns,  a  fugitive  slave,  was  re- 
turned by  the  authorities  to  his  master  in  the  South, 
Halpine  wrote  his  remarkable  poem,  the  "Flaunting 
Lie,"  which  was  for  a  long  time  attributed  to  Horace 
Greeley.  He  loved  to  see  that  freedom  which  he 
himself  enjoyed  under  the  flag  of  his  adopted  coun- 
try extended  to  every  member  of  the  human  race, 
irrespective  of  caste  or  color.  That  flag  he  desig- 
nated a  "  flaunting  lie  "  so  long  as  it  shielded  slavery 
in  the  South,  and  he  advised  the  Government  to 

Furl,  furl  the  boasted  lie! 

Till  Freedom  lives  again, 
With  stature  grand  and  purpose  high 

'Among  untrammeled  men ! 
Roll  up  the  stany  sheen, 

Conceal  its  bloody  stains; 
For  in  its  folds  is  seen 

The  stamp  of  rusting  chains. 

To  extend  this  freedom  to  the  black  man  of  the 
South  and  maintain  the  integrity  of  the  Republic, 
Halpine  fought  manfully  at  the  Battle  of  Bull  Run. 
Transferred  to  the  command  of  General  David 


CHAKLES   GRAHAM   HALPINE.  187 

Hunter,  he  became  a  staff-officer  with  the  rank  of 
Major,  and  accompanied  that  General  when  he  was 
ordered  to  North  Carolina.  Here  it  was  that  Major 
Halpine  assumed  the  pen-name  of  "Miles  O'Reilly" 
and  wrote  his  comical  letters  and  witty  songs.  In 
one  of  those  songs  he  assailed  Dahlgren  for  not 
attacking  Charleston  according  to  his  promise.  The 
song  attracted  a  liberal  share  of  public  attention  and 
it  was  mooted  abroad  that  the  writer,  Private  Miles 
O'Reilly,  was  imprisoned  for  his  breach  of  military 
discipline  and  would  be  court-marti ailed  in  a  few 
days.  President  Lincoln,  on  hearing  the  report  and 
taking  it  to  be  true,  directed  the  Secretary  of  War  to 
issue  an  order  for  O'Reilly's  release  and  the  post- 
ponement of  his  trial.  Here  the  gifted  Celt  enthu- 
siastically applied  himself  to  the  study  of  military 
tactics,  and  in  a  comparatively  short  space  of  time 
he  was  considered  one  of  the  best-informed  officers 
in  the  service  on  military  affairs.  It  was  he  that 
suggested  the  use  of  colored  troops  to  General  Hun- 
ter, by  whom  the  negroes  were  first  turned  to  good 
account  as  soldiers. 

Recognizing  his  worth, the  authorities  promoted 
Major  Halpine  to  the  rank  of  Colonel  and  transferred 
him  to  the  staff  of  Major-General  Halleck,  with  whom 
he  went  into  active  service  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley. 
On  the  march  towards  Staunton  he  was  the  very  soul 
and  centre  of  the  army,  acknowledged  by  all  as  the 


188  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

most  daring  in  battle,  the  best  story-teller  in  camp, 
and  the  first  to  sympathize  with  and  come  to  the 
assistance  of  an  afflicted  associate  in  arms.  Such 
was  the  general  verdict  given  by  his  comrades  of 
Col.  C.  G.  Halpine  before  he  resigned  his  commis- 
sion towards  the  close  of  the  Civil  War. 

When  his  command  was  ordered  to  Washington, 
in  consideration  of  efficient  services  rendered,  he  was 
raised  to  the  rank  of  Brigadier-General  of  Volunteers 
and  gazetted  Major  in  the  regular  army.  But  here 
he  grew  weary  of  inactive  life.  The  cause  of  Free- 
dom was  triumphant.  He  could  not  expect  to  ren- 
der much  more  service  to  his  adopted  country  in 
the  capacity  of  soldier,  and  seeing  that  the  struggle 
was  virtually  ended  he  tendered  his  resignation  to 
the  Government.  The  War  Department  conferred 
upon  him  the  rank  of  Major-General  by  brevet,  and 
sheathing  his  sword  he  once  more  assumed  the  pen 
in  the  office  of  the  New  York  Citizen. 

After  the  close  of  the  war  he  was  elected  to  the 
important  and  lucrative  position  of  City  Registrar, 
which  office  he  filled  to  the  morning  of  his  death. 

When  the  wires  flashed, the  Fall  of  Richmond  to 
New  York  the  people  almost  went  wild  with  joy. 
No  class  rejoiced  over  the  triumph  of  the  Govern- 
ment more  heartily  than  the  citizens  of  Irish  birth, 
and,  fired  by  the  inspiration  of  the  glad  tidings, 
General  Halpine  gave  expression  and  form  to  their 


CHARLES   GRAHAM   HALPINE.  189 

loyal  feelings  in  a  remarkable  poem  from  which  the 
following  verses  are  quoted: 

MUSHA,  glory  to  God!  for  the  news  you  have  sint, 
Wid  your  own  purty  fist,  Mister  Presidint  Linkin! 
And  may  God  be  around  both  the  bed  and  the  tint 
Where  our  bully  boy  Grant  does  his  aitin  and  thinkin'. 

Even  Stanton,  to-night,  we'll  confess  he  was  right 
Whin  he  played  the  ould  scratch  wid  our  have-you-his-carkiss; 
And  to  gallant  "  Phil  Sherry"  we'll  drink  wid  delight, 
On  whose  bright  plume  of  fame  not  a  spot  o'  the  dark  is ! 

Let  the  chapels  be  opened,  the  altars  illumed, 

An'  the  mad  bells  ring  out  from  aich  turret  an  shteeple ; 

Let  the  chancels  wid  flowers  be  adorned  an'  perfumed 

While  the  soggarths — God  bless  'em — give  thanks  for  the  people. 

For  the  city  is  ours  that  "  Mac"  sought  from  the  start, 
An'  our  boys  thro'  its  streets  "  Hail  Columbia  "  are  yellhV; 
An'  there's  peace  in  the  air,  an'  there's  pride  in  the  heart, 
An'  our  flag  has  a  fame  that  no  tongue  can  be  tellin'. 

Who  but  a  genuine  Irish  poet  could  give  fitting 
expression  to  the  patriotic  feelings  of  gladness  that 
filled  every  Irish  heart  on  that  eventful  day  !  Hal- 
pine's  heart  was  Irish  to  the  core  and  therefore 
ardently  devoted  to  the  institutions  of  the  Republic. 
Ireland  was  his  mother;  Columbia  his  spouse.  What 
he  thought  of  his  mother  may  be  learned  from  his 
splendid  poem,  "  Stamping  Out,"  which  was  written 
in  reply  to  an  editorial  in  the  London  Times.  The 
editor  of  the  British  Thunderer  said: 


190  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

"  We  must  stamp  out  the  fires  of  this  Fenian  insurrection, 
and  quench  its  embers  in  the  blood  of  the  wretches  who  are  its 
promoters. " 

The  fire  of  patriotism  which  had  smoldered  in  the 
breast  of  his  loyal  father  was  fanned  to  a  flame  by  the 
brutal  threats  of  the  Times,  and  Halpine  exclaimed- 
Aye,  stamp  away!     Can  you  stamp  it  out, 
This  quenchless  fire  of  a  Nation's  Freedom  ? 

Before  General  Halpine  had  attained  to  the  age  of 
forty,  death  overtook  and  snatched  him  from  the 
scene  of  his  labors  and  with  the  laurels  fresh  upon 
his  brow.  He  died  in  the  Astor  House,  New  York, 
on  the  morning  of  the  3d  of  August,  1868,  from  the 
effects  of  a  drug  taken  for  insomnia.  His  life  went 
out  under  circumstances  much  similar  to  those  which 
attended  the  closing  scene  of  the  late  John  Boyle 
O'Reilly's  remarkable  career.  There  was  a  great 
deal  in  common  between  the  two  men,  mentally  and 
physically. 

General  Halpine  was  a  splendid  type  of  Celtic 
manhood — tall,  stout  and  well  proportioned.  His 
bearing  was  soldierly  and  commanding  to  such  a 
degree  as  to  make  him  a  marked  man  in  any 
gathering  of  people.  In  manners  he  was  amiable, 
courteous  and  refined,  while  his  disposition  to  assist 
the  poor  and  unfortunate  was  such  that  no  deserving 
person  ever  appealed  to  him  in  vain.  His  death  was 
a  great  loss  to  periodical  literature,  and  it  has  caused 


CHARLES   GRAHAM   HALPINE.  191 

a  vacancy  in  New  York  which  will  not  soon  be  filled 
by  another  "Private  Miles  O'Reilly." 

Following  are  a  few  of  General  Halpine's  poems: 

ON  RAISING  A  MONUMENT  TO  THE  IRISH  LEGION, 

To  raise  a  column  o'er  the  dead. 

To  strew  with  flowers  the  graves  of  those 
Who,  long  ago,  in  storms  of  lead, 
And  where  the  bolts  of  battle  sped, 

Beside  us  faced  our  Southern  foes; 
To  honor  these — th'  unshriv'n,  unhearsed — 

To-day  we  sad  survivors  come, 
With  colors  draped,  and  arms  reversed, 
And  all  our  souls  in  gloom  immersed, 

With  silent  fife  and  muffled  drum. 

In  mournful  guise  our  banners  wave ; 

Black  clouds  above  the  "sunburst"  lower; 
WTe  mourn  the  true,  the  young,  the  brave 
Who,  for  this  land  that  shelter  gave, 

Drew  swords  in  peril's  deadliest  hour — 
For  Irish  soldiers  fighting  here 

As  when  Lord  Clare  was  bid  advance, 
And  Cumberland  beheld  with  fear 
The  old  green  banners  swinging  clear 

To  shield  the  broken  lines  of  France. 

We  mourn  them ;  not  because  they  died 

In  battle,  for  our  destined  race, 
In  every  field  of  warlike  pride, 
From  Limerick's  wall  to  India's  tide 

Have  borne  our  flag  to  foremost  place ; 


192  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

As  if  each  sought  the  soldier's  trade, 

While  some  dim  hope  within  him  glows, 

Before  he  dies,  in  line  arrayed, 

To  see  the  old  green  flag  displayed 
For  final  fight  with  Ireland's  foes. 

For  such  a  race  the  soldier's  death 

Seems  not  a  cruel  death  to  die, 
Around  their  names  a  laurel  wreath , 
A  wild  cheer  as  the  parting  breath 

On  which  their  spirits  mount  the  sky; 
Oh,  had  their  hope  been  only  won, 

On  Irish  soil  their  final  fight, 
And  had  they  seen,  ere  sinking  down, 
Our  em'rald  torn  from  England's  crown, 

Each  dead  face  would  have  flashed  with  light. 

But  vain  are  words  to  check  the  tide 

Of  widowed  grief  and  orphaned  woe; 
Again  we  see  them  by  our  side, 
As,  full  of  youth  and  strength  and  pride, 

They  first  went  forth  to  meet  the  foe ! 
Their  kindling  eyes,  their  steps  elate, 

Their  grief  at  parting  hid  in  mirth; 
Against  our  foes  no  spark  of  hate , 
No  wish  but  to  preserve  the  State 

That  welcomes  all  th'  oppressed  of  earth. 

Not  a  new  Ireland  to  invoke, 

To  guard  the  flag  was  all  they  sought; 
Not  to  make  others  feel  the  yoke 
Of  Poland,  feel  the  shot  and  stroke 
Of  those  who  in  the  legion  fought; 


CHARLES   GRAHAM   H ALPINE.  193 

Upon  our  great  flag's  azure  field 

To  hold  unharmed  each  starry  gem— 
This  cause  on  many  a  bloody  field, 
Thinned  out  by  death,  they  would  not  yield — 

It  was  the  world's  last  hope  to  them. 

Oh  ye,  the  small  surviving  band, 

Oh,  Ivish  race  wherever  spread, 
With  wailing  voice  and  wringing  hand, 
And  the  wild  kaoine  of  the  dear  old  land, 

Think  of  her  Legion's  countless  dead! 
Struck  out  of  life  by  ball  or  blade, 

Or  torn  in  fragments  by  the  shell, 
With  briefest  prayer  by  brother  made , 
And  rudely  in  their  blankets  laid, 

Now  sleep  the  brave  who  fought  so  well. 

Their  widows — tell  them  not  of  pride, 

No  laurel  checks  the  orphan's  tear; 
They  only  feel  the  world  is  wide, 
And  dark ,  and  hard — nor  help  nor  guide — 

No  husband's  arm,  no  father  near; 
But  at  their  nod  our  fields  were  won, 

And  pious  pity  for  their  loss 
In  streams  of  gen'rous  aid  should  run 
To  help  them  say:    "  Thy  will  be  done/' 

As  bent  in  grief  they  kiss  the  Cross. 

Then  for  the  soldiers  and  their  chief 

Let  all  combine  a  shaft  to  raise — 
The  double  type  of  pride  and  grief, 
With  many  a  sculpture  and  relief 

To  tell  their  tale  to  after  days;  14 


194  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

And  here  will  shine — our  proudest  boast 

While  one  of  Irish  blood  survives: 
* '  Sacred  to  that  unf  alt 'ring  host 
Of  soldiers  from  a  distant  coast . 
Who  f  >r  the  Union  gave  their  lives. 

"  Welcomed  they  were  with  generous  hand, 

And  to  that  welcome  nobly  true. 
When  war's  dread  tocsin  filled  the  land. 
With  sinewy  arm  and  swinging  brand. 

These  exiles  to  the  rescue  flew. 
Their  fealty  to  the  flag  they  gave, 

And  for  the  Union,  daring  death. 
Foremost  among  the  foremost  brave, 
They  welcomed  vict'iy  and  the  grave, 

In  the  same  sigh  of  parting  breath." 

Thus  be  their  modest  history  penned, 

But  not  with  this  our  love  must  cease; 
Let  pray  ere  from  pious  hearts  ascend, 
And  o'er  their  ashes  let  us  blend 

All  feuds  and  factions  into  peace. 
Oh,  men  of  Ireland!  here  unite 

Around  the  graves  of  those  we  love, 
And  from  their  homes  of  endless  light 
The  Legion's  dead  will  bless  the  sight, 

And  rain  down  anthems  from  above ! 

Here  to  this  shrine  by  reverence  led, 
Let  Love  her  sacred  lessons  teach ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  rise  the  dead, 
From  many  a  trench  with  battle  red. 
And  thus  I  hear  their  ghostly  speech: 


CHARLES   G1UHAM   IIALPINE.  195 

' '  Oh ,  for  the  old  earth ,  and  our  sake , 

Renounce  all  feuds,  engendering  fear, 
And  Ireland  from  her  trance  shall  wake, 
Striving  once  more  her  chains  to  break 

When  all  her  sons  are  brothers  here. " 

I  see  our  Meagher's  plume  of  green, 

Approving  nod  to  hear  the  words, 
And  Corcoran's  wraith  applauds  the  scene, 
And  bold  Mat  Murphy  smiles,  I  ween — 

All  three  with  hands  on  ghastly  swords — 
Oh,  for  their  sake,  whose  names  of  light 

Flash  out  like  beacons  from  dark  shores — 
Men  of  the  old  race!  in  your  might, 
All  factions  quelled,  again  unite — 

With  you  the  Green  Flag  sinks  or  soars ! 

JANETTE'S  HAIR. 

OH!  loosen  the  snood  that  you  wear,  Janette, 

Let  me  tangle  a  hand  in  your  hair,  my  pet; 
For  the  world  to  me  had  no  daintier  sight 
Than  your  brown  hair  veiling  your  shoulders  white, 

As  I  tangled  a  hand  in  your  hair,  my  pet. 

It  was  brown,  with  a  golden  gloss,  Janette, 
It  was  finer  than  silk  of  the  floss,  my  pet; 

'T  was  a  beautiful  mist  falling  down  to  your  wrist; 

Twas  a  thing  to  be  braided,  and  jeweled  and  kissed; 
T  was  the  loveliest  hair  in  the  world,  my  pet. 


196  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

My  arm  was  the  arm  of  a  clown,  Janette, 
It  was  sinewy,  bristled,  and  brown,  my  pet; 
But  warmly  and  softly  it  loved  to  caress 
Your  round  white  neck  and  your  wealth  of  tress — 
Your  beautiful  plenty  of  hair,  my  pet. 

Your  eyes  had  a  swimming  glory,  Janette, 

Revealing  the  old,  dear  story,  my  pet; 

They  were  gray  with  that  chastened  tinge  of  the  sky, 
When  the  trout  leaps  quickest  to  snap  the  fly, 

And  they  matched  with  your  golden  hair,  my  pet. 

Your  lips — but  I  have  no  words,  Janette — 
They  were  fresh  as  the  twitter  of  birds,  my  pet; 
When  the  spring  is  young,  and  the  roses  are  wet 
With  the  dewdrops  in  each  red  bosom  set, 
And  they  suited  your  gold-brown  hair,  my  pet. 

Oh,  you  tangled  my  life  in  your  hair,  Janette, 
T  was  a  silken  and  golden  snare,  my  pet; 

But,  so  gentle  the  bondage,  my  soul  did  implore 
The  right  to  continue  your  slave  evermore, 
With  my  fingers  enmeshed  in  your  hair,  my  pet. 


Thus  ever  I  dream  what  you  were,  Janette, 
With  your  lips,  and  your  eyes,  and  your  hair,  my  pet; 
In  the  darkness  of  desolate  years  I  moan, 
And  my  tears  fall  bitterly  over  the  stone 
That  covers  your  golden  hair,  my  pet. 


CHARLES  GRAHAM   H ALPINE.  197 

NOT  A  STAR  FROM  THE  FLAG  SHALL  FADE. 

OCH  !  a  rare  ould  flag  was  the  flag  we  bore— 

'T  was  a  bully  ould  flag  an'  nice ; 
It  had  stripes  in  plenty,  and  stare  galore — 

'T  was  the  broth  of  a  purty  device. 
Faix,  we  carried  it  South,  an'  we  carried  it  far, 

And  around  it  our  bivouacs  made ; 
An'  we  swore  by  the  shamrock  that  never  a  slitar  . 

From  its  azure  field  should  fade. 

Ay,  this  was  the  oath,  I  tell  you  thrue, 

That  was  sworn  in  the  souls  of  our  boys  in  blue. 

The  fight  it  grows  thick,  an'  our  boys  they  fall, 

An'  the  shells  like  a  banshee  scream; 
An*  the  flag — it  is  torn  by  many  a  ball — 

But  yield  it  we  never  dhream. 
Though  pierced  by  bullets,  ^et  still  it  bears 

All  the  stare  in  its  tatthered  field, 
An'  again  the  brigade,  like  to  one  man  swears, 

"  Not  a  shtar  from  the  flag  we  yield!" 

T  was  the  deep,  hot  oath,  I  tell  you  thrue, 
That  lay  close  to  the  hearts  of  the  boys  in  blue. 

Shure  the  fight  it  was  won,  afther  many  a  year, 

But  two-thirds  of  the  boys  who  bore 
That  flag  from  their  wives  and  sweethearts  dear 

Returned  to  their  homes  no  more. 
They  died  by  the  bullet — disease  had  power, 

An'  to  death  they  were  rudely  tossed; 
But  the  thought  came  warm  in  their  dying  hour, 

"  Not  a  shtar  from  that  flag  is  lost ! " 


198  IRISH   POETS   AI\D  NOVELISTS: 

Then  they  said  their  pathers  and  aves  through, 
An',  like  Irishmen,  died — did  our  boys  in  blue. 

But  now  they  tell  us  some  shtars  are  gone, 

Torn  out  by  the  rebel  gale; 
That  the  shtars  we  fought  for,  the  States  we  won, 

Are  still  out  of  the  Union's  pale. 
May  their  sowls  in  the  dioul's  hot  kitchen  glow 

Who  sing  such  a  lying  sh train; 
By  the  dead  in  their  graves  it  shall  not  be  so — 

They  shall  have  what  they  died  to  gain  • 

All  the  shtars  in  our  flag  shall  still  shine  through 
The  grass  growing  soft  o'er  our  dead  in  blue ! 

STAMPING  OUT 

[We  must  stamp  out  the  fires  of  this  Fenian  insurrection,  and  quench  ite 
embers  in  the  blood  of  the  wretches  who  are  its  promoters  — London  Times.  ] 

Aye,  stamp  away!    Can  you  stamp  it  out — 

This  quenchless  fire  of  a  Nation's  Freedom  ? 
Your  feet  are  broad  and  your  legs  are  stout, 

But  stouter  far  for  this  you'll  need  'em ' 
You  have  stamped  away  for  six  hundred  years, 

But  again  and  again  the  old  cause  rallies; 
Pikes  gleam  in  the  hands  of  our  mountaineers, 

And  with  scythes  come  the  men  from  our  valleys. 

The  steel-clad  Norman,  as  he  roams, 
Is  faced  by  our  naked  gallow-glasses; 

We  lost  the  plains  and  our  pleasant  homes, 
But  we  held  the  fields  and  passes ! 


CHARLES   GRAHAM   H ALPINE.  199 

And  still  the  beltone  fires  at  night — 

If  not  a  man  were  left  to  feed  'em — 
By  widows'  hands  piled  high  and  bright, 

Flashed  for  the  flame  of  Freedom ! 

Aye ,  stamp  away !    Can  you  stamp  it  out, 

Or  how  have  your  brutal  arts  been  baffled  ? 
You  have  wielded  the  power  of  rope  and  knot, 

Fire,  dungeon,  sword  and  scaffold 
But  still ,  as  from  each  martyr's  hand 

The  Fiery  Cross  fell  down  in  fighting, 
A  thousand  sprang  to  seize  the  brand, 

Our  beltone  fires  re-lighting! 

And  once  again  through  Irish  nights, 

O'er  every  dark  hill  redly  streaming, 
And  numerous  as  the  heavenly  lights, 

Our  rebel  fires  were  gleaming! 
And  though  again  might  fall  that  flame, 

Quenched  in  the  blood  of  its  devoted, 
Fresh  chieftains  rose ,  fresh  clansmen  came 

And  again  the  Old  Flag  floated. 

That  fire  will  burn,  that  flag  will  float — 

By  Virtue  nursed,  by  Valor  rended — 
Till  with  one  fierce  clutch  upon  your  throat 

Your  Moloch  reign  is  ended ! 
It  may  be  now,  or  it  may  be  then, 

That  the  hour  will  come  we  have  hoped  for  ages — 
But,  failing  and  foiling,  we  try  again, 

And  again  the  conflict  rages. 


200  IKISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Our  hate,  though  hot,  is  a  patient  hate — 

Deadly  and  patient  to  catch  you  tripping, 
And  your  eyes  are  many,  your  crimes  are  great, 

And  the  sceptre  is  from  you  slipping. 
But,  stamp  away  with  your  brutal  hoof, 

While  the  fires  to  scorch  you  are  upward  cleaving, 
For  with  bloody  shuttles,  the  warp  and  woof 

Of  your  shroud  the  Fates  are  weaving! 

THE  FLAUNTING  LIE. 

ALL  hail  the  flaunting  Lie ! 

The  stars  grow  pale  and  dim — 
The  stripes  are  bloody  scars, 

A  lie  the  flaunting  hymn ! 
It  shields  a  pirate's  deck, 

It  binds  a  man  in  chains, 
And  round  the  captive's  neck 

Its  folds  are  bloody  stains. 

Tear  down  the  flaunting  Lie ! 

Half-mast  the  starry  flag ! 
Insult  no  sunny  sky 

With  this  polluted  rag ! 
Destroy  it,  ye  who  can! 

Deep  sink  it  in  the  waves ! 
It  bears  a  fellow-rnan 

To  groan  with  fellow-slaves. 

Awake  the  burning  scorn — 

The  vengeance  long  and  deep, 
That,  till  a  better  morn, 

Shall  neither  tire  nor  sleep ! 


CHARLES  GRAHAM  HALPINE.  201 

Swear  once  again  the  vow, 

By  all  we  hope  or  dream, 
That  what  we  suffer  now 

The  future  shall  redeem. 

Furl,  furl  the  boasted  Lie! 

Till  Freedom  lives  again, 
With  stature  grand  and  purpose  high 

Among  untrammeled  men ! 
Roll  up  the  starry  sheen, 

Conceal  its  bloody  stains; 
For  in  its  folds  are  seen 

The  stamp  of  rusty  chains. 

Swear,  Freemen— all  as  one— 

To  spurn  the  flaunting  Lie ! 
Till  peace  and  Truth  and  Love 

Shall  till  the  brooding  sky; 
Then  floating  in  the  air, 

O'er  hill,  and  dale,  and  sea, 
'T  will  stand  forever  fair, 

The  emblem  of  the  Free! 

SAMBO'S  RIGHT  TO  BE   KILT. 

SOME  say  it  is  a  burnin'  .shame 

To  make  the  naygurs  fight, 
An'  that  the  thrade  o'  bein'  kilt 
Belongs  but  to  the  white. 
But  as  for  me,  upon  me  sowl, 

So  liberal  are  we  here, 
I'll  let  Sambo  be  murthered  in  place  o'  myself 

On  eveiy  day  in  the  year. 


202  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

On  every  day  in  the  year,  boys, 
An'  every  hour  in  the  day, 

The  right  to  be  kilt  I'll  divide  with  him, 
An'  divil  a  word  I'll  say. 

In  battle's  wild  commotion 

I  shouldn't  at  all  object, 
If  Sambo's  body  should  stop  a  ball 

That  was  comin'  for  me  direct; 
An'  the  prod  of  a  Southern  bagnet, 

So  liberal  are  we  here, 
I'll  resign,  and  let  Sambo  take  it 

On  every  day  in  the  year. 

On  every  day  in  the  year,  boys, 
An'  wid  none  o'  your  nasty  pride, 

All  my  right  in  Southern  bagnet-prod 
Wid  Sambo  I'll  divide. 

The  men  who  object  to  Sambo 

Should  take  his  place  and  fight, 
An'  it's  betther  to  have  a  naygur's  hue 

Than  a  liver  that's  wake  an'  white; 
Though  Sambo's  as  black  as  the  ace  o'  spades 

His  finger  a  thrigger  can  pull, 
An'  his  eye  runs  straight  on  the  barrel-sights 

From  under  his  thatch  o'  wool. 

So  hear  me  all,  boys,  daiiin's! 

Don't  think  I'm  tippin'  you  chaff, 
The  right  to  be  kilt  I'll  divide  wid  him, 

An'  give  him  the  largest  half  ! 


JAMES   JOSEPH   CALLANAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "GOUGANE  BAERA." 

HERE  is  a  romantic  islet  in  Clonakilty  Bay, 
on  the  south  coast  of  Ireland,  where  the  sub- 
ject of  this  memoir  wrote  his  "  Childe  Harold  " — 
"The  Recluse  of  Inchidony."  He  was  truly  the 
poet  of  nature,  who  found  pleasure  among  the  gloomy 
glens  of  Desmond  and  "  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore" 
of  Inchidony.  There  he  communed  with  nature  for 
a  considerable  space  of  time  and  wrote  that  splendid 
poem  entitled  "Gougane  Barra,"  which  Allibone,  the 
biographical  compiler  and  literary  critic,  designates 
as  "the  most  perfect,  perhaps,  of  all  minor  Irish 
poems,  in  the  melody  of  its  rhythm,  the  soft,  sweet 
flow  of  its  language  and  the  weird  force  of  its  expres- 
sion." A  tradition  connected  with  the  shores  of  his 
wild  retreat  suggested  another  of  his  pieces,  "  The 
Virgin  Mary's  Bank." 

James  Joseph  Callanan  was  born  in  the  city  of 
Cork,  in  May,  1 795.  His  parents  were  in  good  cir- 
cumstances, and  gave  the  future  poet  all  the  educa- 
tional advantages  that  could  be  had  at  that  time  in 
his  native  city.  Mrs.  Callanan,  a  lady  of  piety  and 

(203) 


204 


IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 


culture,  directed  the  thoughts  and  aspirations  of  her 
son  towards  the  sacred  ministry,  from  his  boyhood. 

Having  made  his  classical  studies  in  one  of  the 
many  Latin  schools  for  which  the  city  of  St.  Finn- 
Barr  has  always  been  remarkable,  he  passed  an  ex- 
aminaton  for  the  ecclesiastical  seminary  of  May- 


nooth  and  entered  there  in  1812,  when  he  was  but 
seventeen  years  of  age. 

Two  years  of  student  life  in  Maynooth  convinced 
both  his  spiritual  director  and  himself  that  he  had 
no  vocation  to  the  sacred  priesthood,  and  he  left  the 
Seminary  to  enter  Trinity  College  as  an  outpensioner. 


JAMES  JOSEPH  CALLANAN.  205 

Owing  to  the  thorough  course  of  training  which  he 
had  received  in  Maynooth,  his  progress  at  Trinity 
was  both  easy  and  rapid.  In  belles-lettres  he  excelled, 
and  during  his  University  course  took  the  Vice- 
Chancellor's  prizes  for  poetry  and  rhetoric.  One  of 
his  prize  poems  had  for  its  subject  the  "  Restoration 
of  the  Spoils  of  Athens;"  another,  the  "  Accession  of 
George  the  Fourth."  The  latter  theme,  doubtless, 
could  have  very  little  inspiration  for  one  who  loved 
his  country  as  tenderly  and  sincerely  as  Callanan 
did.  After  devoting  four  years  to  hard  study  and 
winning  an  enviable  distinction  in  the  best  educa- 
tional institutions  of  his  country,  young  Callanan 
returned  to  Cork.  During  his  absence  both  his  par- 
ents had  died;  the  friends  of  boyhood's  days  were 
scattered  far  and  wide,  and  those  scenes  that  were  so 
dear  to  him  in  former  years  seemed  to  have  lost  their 
charms.  In  the  state  of  mind  produced  by  those 
changes,  he  joined  a  regiment  of  Irish  soldiers  which 
was  on  the  eve  of  leaving  for  Malta.  Fortunately 
some  patriotic  friends  interfered  in  time  to  buy  him 
out  of  the  service  before  the  troops  started  from  Cove, 
and  the  poetic  literature  of  their  country  profited  by 
the  act.  Shortly  after  his  release,  he  was  engaged  as 
tutor  in  the  family  of  Mr.  M.  F.  McCarthy  of  Mill- 
street,  a  little  town  romantically  situated  on  the 
Blackwater.  While  acting  in  this  capacity  Callanan 
found  time  to  study  the  ancient  Irish,  and  gather 


206  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

from  the  peasantry  of  the  neighboring  glens  those 
songs  which  he  afterwards  translated  with  so  much 
felicity  and  force  into  the  English  tongue. 

Growing  weary  of  his  tutorship  in  Millstreet,  he 
returned  once  more  to  Cork,  where  he  obtained  a 
position  in  the  celebrated  school  of  the  learned 
Dr.  William  Maginn  who,  like  himself,  was  a 
graduate  of  Trinity.  The  Doctor  was  a  man  of 
keen  discernment,  and  soon  discovered  that  his 
assistant  possessed  talents  of  a  high  order.  He 
encouraged  him  to  translate  the  relics  of  the  Mun- 
ster  bards,  and  introduced  him  to  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine, to  which  the  Doctor  himself  had  been  for 
some  years  a  valued  contributor.  In  that  year — 
1823 — six  translations  from  the  Gaelic  language  ap- 
peared in  Blackwood's  from  the  pen  of  "  a  new  Irish 
poet."  The  poet  was  Callanan;  and  subsequently  any 
literary  contribution  that  bore  the  mark  of  his  genius 
was  welcomed  to  the  editor's  table.  The  shy,  sensi- 
tive tutor  had  now  found  a  friend  in  his  fellow- 
townsman,  and  a  broader  sphere  for  the  display  of  his 
talents  in  Mr.  Blackwood's  publication,  and  he  was 
determined  to  make  good  use  of  his  genius  and 
acquirements.  But,  unfortunately,  the  friend  and 
patron  who  had  already  won  a  wide  popularity  as  the 
"  Sir  Morgan  O'Doherty  "  of  Blackwood's  soon  gave  up 
his  school,  and  emigrated  to  London  for  the  purpose 
of  devoting  all  his  time  to  literature.  In  London, 


JAMES  JOSEPH   CALLA.NAN.  207 

Dr.  Maginn  became  one  of  the  most  learned  and 
prolific  writers  of  his  age.  So,  in  1823,  poor  Cal- 
lanan  again  found  himself  without  an  occupation. 
Had  he  followed  his  friend  to  London  there  was 
ample  work  for  him  to  do  on  the  countless  publica- 
tions of  that  monster  city.  But  he  loved  his  native 
land  too  dearly  to  leave  it,  and  he  now  resolved  to 
struggle  at  home. 

Then  it  was  that  he  took  up  his  residence  in  the 
little  island  above  mentioned.  From  this  strange, 
wild  abode  he  made  frequent  excursions  along  the 
sea-coast  of  the  County  Cork,  admiring  the  savage 
grandeur  of  the  scenery,  and  collecting  from  the 
simple  and  generous  people  of  those  regions  the 
legends  and  traditions  which  had  been  handed  down 
to  them  through  many  generations. 

A  close  student  of  his  country's  history,  the  strug- 
gles of  the  brave  but  honest  Gael  against  the  crafty 
and  faithless  invader  had  for  him  an  absorbing 
interest,  and  he  devoted  much  of  his  time  to  collect- 
ing and  preserving  any  records  that  were  calculated 
to  serve  the  future  historian  in  meting  out  justice  to 
a  traduced  and  injured  people.  He  was  also  an 
ardent  lover  of  Nature,  and  the  finest  imagery  we 
find  in  his  poems  is  not  borrowed  from  the  ancient 
classics  in  which  he  was  deeply  versed,  but  taken 
from  those  inspiring  objects  that  constitute  the  glori- 
ous scenery  of  "  deep-valley'd  Desmond." 


208  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

Every  stream,  rock  and  river,  every  storied  pass, 
sombre  glen  and  hoary  fane,  every  giant  cliff  that 
bares  its  breast  to  the  tossing  billows  of  the  Atlantic, 
every  ruined  fort  and  mountain  lake  from  the  Lee 
around  to  the  Kenmare  river  was  as  familiar  to  him 
as  the  morning  prayer  which  he  never  failed  to  recite. 
Among  those  scenes  he  wandered  day  after  day,  lured 
on  by  the  spirit  of  Song  and  the  voice  of  Nature,  as 
he  tells  us  in  one  of  his  long  poems: 

Spirit  of  Song!  since  first  I  wooed  thy  smile, 
How  many  a  sorrow  hath  this  bosom  known 

How  many  false  ones  did  its  truth  beguile, 
From  THEE  and  NATURE  !     While  around  it  strown 
Lay  shattered  hopes  and  feelings,  THOU  alone 

Above  my  path  of  darkness  brightly  rose, 

Yielding  thy  light  when  other  light  was  gone: 

Oh,  be  thou  still  the  soother  of  my  woes, 

Till  the  low  voice  of  Death  shall  call  me  to  repose. 

During  his  wanderings  through  the  picturesque 
barony  of  Beara,  he  succeeded  in  collecting  a  great 
deal  of  information  relative  to  local  chiefs.  Where 
the  village  of  Castle  town  nestles,  at  the  western 
extremity  of  Bantry  Bay,  in  an  angle  of  the  Caha 
hills,  he  found  the  manuscript  of  a  poem  which 
stands  unrivaled  in  the  whole  range  of  Gaelic  com- 
position, both  for  energy  of  expression  and  vehe- 
mence of  malediction.  In  the  translation  Callanan 
has  admirably  retained  its  primitive  power  and 


JAMES  JOSEPH   CALLANAN.  209 

vigor  while  adding  to  it  those  graces  of  euphony  and 
diction  which  characterize  all  his  verses.  This 
piece  is  called  "The  Dirge  of  O'Sullivan  Beare,"  sup- 
posed to  have  been  composed  by  the  old  nurse  of  the 
murdered  Chief,  whose  cruel  fate  is  a  striking  illus- 
tration of  the  brutal  treatment  received  by  the  native 
gentry  at  the  hands  of  Anglo-Norman  marauders. 
Mortimer  O'Sullivan,  commonly  called  "Morty 
Oge,"  was  a  descendant  of 

* 

"Donal  of  the  ships,  the  Chief  whom  nothing  daunted/' 

and  a  young  man  whose  mettle  had  been  tried  in  the 
wars  of  Maria  Teresa.  After  the  battle  of  Fontenoy, 
he  received  a  commission  in  the  Irish  Brigade  serving 
in  France,  and  was  dispatched  to  Ireland  in  the 
interest  of  his  regiment.  The  gallant  young  soldier 
naturally  directed  his  course  to  that  part  of  the 
Green  Isle  over  which  his  ancestors  had  reigned 
since  the  close  of  the  tenth  century.  As  a  scion  of  the 
House  of  Beara,  he  was  received  with  open  arms  by 
the  native  population,  and  his  recruiting  expedition 
became  a  pronounced  success.  A  fine  brigantine, 
which  he  named  the  "  Clann-na-Darra,"  after  a  sept 
in  his  native  place,  carried  the  "Wild  Geese,"  from 
certain  inlets  of  the  Kenmare  river,  and  from  the 
little  harbor  of  Beal-a-Cravaun  to  convenient  ports 
in  France.  The  young  Colonel  managed  to  win  over 

15 


210  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

to  his  standard  a  company  of  red-coats — beneath 
which  pulsated  warm  Irish  hearts — just  on  the  eve  of 
their  departure  from  the  city  of  Cork.  This  daring 
act  aroused  the  Government  authorities  and  cast 
some  reflections  on  Mr.  Puxley,  the  revenue  officer 
for  the  district  in  which  the  recruiting  was  chiefly 
done.  Puxley,  who  was  himself  a  poltroon  and  the 
son  of  a  poltroon,  took  care  to  avoid  a  conflict  with 
O'Sullivan,  whose  reputation  for  skill  and  courage 
was  well  known  in  the  south  of  Ireland.  But  when 
he  ascertained  that  Colonel  O'Sullivan  was  away  on 
the  coast  of  France,  he  marched  at  the  head  of  a 
company  of  yeoman  across  the  narrow  neck  of  land 
that  divides  Castletown  harhor  from  Coulach  Bay 
with  the  heroic  resolution  of  proving  to  the  Govern- 
ment that  he  was  an  active  and  efficient  officer. 
While  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Irish  officer's 
former  home  he  received  information  to  the  effect 
that  Denis  O'Sullivan,  a  near  kinsman  to  MortyOge, 
resided  there,  and  always  extended  the  hospitality  of 
his  house  to  the  young  chief  whenever  he  came  into 
the  vicinity. 

Mr.  D.  O'Sullivan,  who  owned  a  smuggling  craft, 
was  at  the  time  somewhere  on  the  coast  of  Galway; 
but  his  wife  (a  fine  old  lady  of  three  score)  with  a 
serving  girl  was  at  home.  Directing  the  footsteps 
of  his  gallant  yeomen  to  this  house,  Mr.  Puxley  had 


JAMES  JOSEPH  C  ALLAN  AN.  211 

the  doors  and  windows  nailed  up,  and  then  setting 
fire  to  the  building,  watched  with  complacency  and 
pleasure  the  progress  of  the  flames. 

Fortunately  Mrs.  0' Sullivan  and  her  servant  de- 
scended to  the  cellar  and  escaped  through  a  subter- 
ranean passage.  A  cat,  driven  by  the  heat  on  to  the 
burning  rafters  mewed  most  piteously  while  the 
flames  lapped  everything  within  reach.  Taking  the 
mewing  of  the  cat  for  the  dying  groans  of  the  noble 
old  lady,  Puxley  exclaimed  in  the  midst  of  his 
"loyall  companie,"  "  Hearken  ye  the  squeals  of  the 
old  Papist!" 

Subsequently  this  fiendish  fellow  being  informed 
that  the  husband  of  the  old  lady,  whom  he  had 
supposed  to  be  dead,  was  landing  some  cases  of 
goods  in  the  little  cove  of  Pouleen,  hastened  to 
the  spot  and  from  behind  a  huge  rock,  still  pointed 
out  by  tradition,  shot  down  the  old  man  in  cold 
blood.  After  this  the  authorities  could  not  complain 
of  his  inactivity. 

Vengeance,  however,  was  near  at  hand.  On  the 
return  of  Col.  0' Sullivan  the  appalling  news  met 
him  on  his  native  shore.  Immediately  mounting 
his  horse  he  rode  over  a  spur  of  the  Caha  hills  which 
separates  Coulach  from  Dunbuie  (then  the  residence 
of  the  revenue  officer).  At  a  short  distance  from 
that  ancient  stronghold  of  the  O'Sullivans  he  met 


212  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Puxley,  who  was  also  on  horseback.  A  flash !  and 
the  latter  fell  to  the  ground  mortally  wounded.  His 
wife,  who  accompanied  him  on  that  morning,  seeing 
her  husband  fall,  rode  back  terror-stricken  to  the 
Castle  of  Dunbuie. 

"  Let  her  not  escape  to  tell  the  tale,"  exclaimed 
O'Sullivan's  orderly.  "  Never/'  replied  the  Colonel, 
"  shall  it  be  said  that  an  O'Sullivan  shot  a  woman." 

About  nine  months  had  passed  away  and  Colonel 
O'Sullivan  was  back  again  in  his  ancestral  home  by 
the  Atlantic.  A  company  of  soldiers  came  around 
from  Cork  under  the  command  of  Capt.  Fitzsimons, 
and  proceeded  in  the  darkness  of  a  rainy  night  to 
the  house  where  O'Sullivan  was  stopping.  It  is  said 
that  one  of  his  trusty  men,  named  Scully,  wet  his 
master's  powder,  and  betrayed  him  into  the  hands  of 
the  enemy. 

The  following  translation  by  our  author  tells  the 
rest  of  that  blood-stained  and  barbarous  tale: 

DIRGE  OF  O'SULLIVAN  BEARE. 

THE  sun  on  Ivera 

No  longer  shines  brightly; 
The  voice  of  her  music 

No  longer  is  sprightly; 
No  more  to  her  maidens 

The  light  dance  is  dear, 
Since  the  death  of  our  darling, 

O'Sullivan  Beare. 


JAMES  JOSEPH   CALLANAN.  213 

Scully!  thou  false  one; 

You  basely  betrayed  him, 
In  his  strong  hour  of  need, 

When  thy  right  hand  should  aid  him. 
He  fed  thee— he  clad  thee— 

You  had  all  could  delight  thee; 
You  left  him — you  sold  him — 

May  Heaven  requite  thee ! 

Scully !  may  all  kinds 

Of  evil  attend  thee ! 
On  thy  dark  road  of  life 

May  no  kind  one  befriend  thee! 
May  fevers  long  burn  thee , 

And  agues  long  freeze  thee— 
May  the  strong  hand  of  God 

In  his  red  anger  seize  thee  I 

Had  he  died  calmly, 

I  would  not  deplore  him ; 
Or  if  the  wild  strife 

Of  the  sea- war  closed  o'er  him; 
But  with  ropes  'round  his  white  limb* 

Through  oceans  to  trail  him, 
Like  a  fish  after  slaughter, 

T  is  therefore  I  wail  him. 

Long  may  the  curse 

Of  his  people  pursue  them; 
Scully,  that  sold  him, 

And  soldiers  that  slew  him ! 


214  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

One  glimpse  of  Heaven's  light 

May  they  see  never ! 
May  the  hearth-stone  of  hell 

Be  their  best  bed  forever! 

In  the  hole  which  the  vile  hands 

Of  soldiers  had  made  thee , 
[Jnhonored,  unshrouded, 

And  headless  they  laid  thee. 
No  sigh  to  regret  thee, 

No  eye  to  rain  o'er  thee , 
No  dirge  to  lament  thee , 

No  friend  to  deplore  thee ! 

Dear  head  of  my  darling, 

How  gory  and  pale 
These  aged  eyes  see  thee, 

High  spiked  on  the  jail ! 
That  cheek  in  the  summer  sun 

Ne'er  shall  grow  warm ; 
Nor  that  eye  e'er  catch  light, 

But  the  flash  of  the  storm ! 

A  curse,  blessed  ocean, 

Is  on  thy  green  water, 
From  the  haven  of  Cork, 

To  Ivera  of  slaughter; 
Since  the  billows  were  dyed 

With  the  red  wounds  of  fear 
Of  Muiertach  Oge, 

Our  O'SullivanBeare! 


JAMES  JOSEPH  CALL  AN  AN.  215 

From  1823  to  1828  Callanan  devoted  all  his  time 
to  the  congenial  task  of  collecting  and  translating 
those  Irish  manuscripts  that  escaped  the  vandalism 
of  the  invader.  For  this  work  he  was  highly  quali- 
fied, according  to  the  opinion  of  J.  F.  Waller,  him- 
self a  poet  of  rare  gifts  and  varied  acquirements. 

"  Thoroughly  acquainted/'  writes  Mr.  Waller,  "  with 
the  romantic  legends  of  his  country,  he  was  singu- 
larly happy  in  the  graces  and  power  of  language,  and 
the  feeling  and  beauty  of  his  sentiments.  There  is 
in  his  compositions  little  of  that  high  classicality 
which  marks  the  scholar;  but  they  are  full  of  exquis- 
ite simplicity  and  tenderness,  and  in  his  description 
of  natural  scenery  he  stands  unrivaled." 

Critics,  of  course,  are  not  wanting  who  think  our 
author  might  have  done  more,  had  he  applied  his 
well-cultivated  mind  more  closely.  About  what  he 
might  have  done  we  care  very  little ;  but  for  what  he 
has  done  we  are  grateful,  and  cherish  his  memory. 
For  critics  and  fault-finders  there  should  be  little 
respect.  Their  strictures  and  opinions  should  pass 
unheeded.  Though  they  do  not  build,  they  are 
nearly  always  pulling  down.  They  are  wreckers,  and, 
like  those  who  lure  mariners  to  destruction,  they  do 
their  work  in  the  darkness. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  Callanan  suffered  for 
many  years  from  consumption,  and  finally  sue- 


216  IKISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

/ 

cumbed  to  that  insidious  disease.  When  its  effects 
were  severely  telling  on  his  strength,  in  1829  he 
went  as  tutor  with  the  family  of  a  Mr.  Hickey  of 
Cork,  to  Lisbon,  indulging  the  fond  hope  that  the 
balmy  air  of  a  southern  clime  would  restore  his 
shattered  health. 

After  a  few  months'  residence  in  Lisbon  he  grew 
worse  and  suffered  much  mental  agony  from  the  fear 
of  dying  in  a  foreign  land.  His  ardent  desire  was 
to  be  buried  in  Ireland.  He  craved  to  be  taken  back 
to  his  own  land  in  order  that  his  ashes  might  mingle 
with  the  land  of  his  fondest  affections.  But  vain 
were  his  desires.  He  died  in  the  capital  of  Portu- 
gal, September  19,  1829,  and 

' '  By  the  strangers'  heedless  hand 
His  lonely  grave  was  made. " 

At  the  age  of  thirty-four  he  resigned  his  pure  and 
gentle  spirit  into  the  hands  of  his  Divine  Master, 
leaving  behind  him  a  reputation  for  scholarly 
attainments,  fidelity  to  the  cause  of  Ireland  and 
devotion  to  the  faith  of  his  fathers.  He  was  buried 
not  in  the  churchyard  of  the  Irish  Franciscans  at 
Lisbon,  as  has  been  said,  but  in  the  church  of  San 
Jose,  which  was  at  that  time  in  possession  of  the 
Jesuits.  The  highly  ornamental  facade  of  that 
church  still  stands,  but  the  grave  of  James  Joseph 
Callanan  is  nameless  and  unknown. 


JAMES  JOSEPH   CALLANAN.  217 

The  last  edition  of  his  poems  was  published  by 
Daniel  Mulcahy,  Cork,  in  1861.  The  biographical 
notes  of  this,  as  well  as  of  the  earlier  editions,  are 
very  poorly  written,  arid  do  but  little  justice  to  the 
character  of  that  pious,  high-souled  and  generous 
man.  The  poems  of  this  gentle  bard  are  not  numer- 
ous; but  such  is  the  excellence  of  their  quality  that 
they  have  been  widely  copied  into  our  public  school 
books  here,  and  are  destined  to  transmit  to  coming 
generations  the  unsullied  name  of  their  gifted  author. 

GOUGANE  BARRA. 

THERE  is  a  green  island  in  lone  Gougane  Barra, 

Where  Allua  of  songs  rushes  forth  as  an  arrow; 

In  deep-valley'd  Desmond — a  thousand  wild  fountains 

Come  down  to  that  lake,  from  their  home  in  the  mountains, 

There  grows  the  wild  ash,  and  a  time-stricken  willow 

Looks  chidingly  down  on  the  mirth  of  the  billow ; 

As,  like  some  gay  child,  that  sad  monitor  scorning, 

It  lightly  laughs  back  to  the  laugh  of  the  morning. 

And  its  zone  of  dark  hills — oh,  to  see  them  all  bright 'ning, 
When  the  tempest  flings  out  its  red  banner  of  lightning, 
And  the  waters  rush  down,  'mid  the  thunder's  deep  rattle, 
Like  clans  from  the  hills  at  the  voice  of  the  battle; 
And  brightly  the  fire-crested  billows  are  gleaming, 
And  wildly  from  Mullagh  the  eagles  are  screaming. 
Oh!  where  is  the  dwelling  in  valley,  or  highland, 
So  meet  for  a  bard  as  this  lone  little  island  ? 


218  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

How  oft  when  the  summer  sun  rested  on  Clara 
And  lit  the  dark  heath  on  the  hills  of  Ivera, 
Have  I  sought  thee,  sweet  spot,  from  my  home  by  the  ocean 
And  trod  all  thy  wilds  with  a  minstrel's  devotion, 
And  thought  of  thy  bards,  when,  assembling  together, 
In  the  cleft  of  thy  rocks,  or  the  depth  of  thy  heather, 
They  fled  from  the  Saxon's  dark  bondage  and  slaughter, 
And  waked  their  last  song  by  the  rush  of  thy  water ! 

High  sons  of  the  lyre,  oh!  how  proud  was  the  feeling, 

To  think  while  alone  through  that  solitude  stealing, 

Though  loftier  minstrels  green  Erin  can  number, 

I  only  awoke  your  wild  harp  from  its  slumber, 

And  mingled  once  more  with  the  voice  of  those  fountains 

The  songs  even  echo  forgot  on  her  mountains; 

And  gleaned  each  grey  legend,  that  darkly  was  sleeping 

Where  the  mist  and  the  rain  o'er  their  beauty  were  creeping! 

Least  bard  of  the  hilLs !  were  it  mine  to  inherit 

The  fire  of  thy  harp,  and  the  wing  of  thy  spirit, 

With  the  wrongs  which  like  thee  to  our  country  have  bound  me. 

Did  your  mantle  of  song  fling  its  radiance  around  me, 

Still — still  in  those  wilds  may  young  liberty  rally, 

And  send  her  strong  shout  over  mountain  and  valley; 

The  star  of  the  west  may  yet  rise  in  its  glory, 

And  the  land  that  was  darkest  be  brightest  in  story. 

I,  too,  shall  be  gone; — but  my  name  shall  be  spoken 
When  Erin  awakes,  and  her  fetters  are  broken; 
Some  minstrel  will  come,  in  the  summer  eve's  gleaming, 
When  Freedom's  young  light  on  his  spirit  is  beaming, 


JAMES  JOSEPH  CALL  AN  AN.  219 

And  bend  o'er  my  grave  with  a  tear  of  emotion, 
Where  calm  Avon-JBuie  seeks  the  kisses  of  ocean, 
Or  plant  a  wild  wreath,  from  the  banks  of  that  river, 
O'er  the  heart,  and  the  harp  that  are  sleeping  forever. 


THE  VIRGIN   MARY'S  BANK. 

THE  evening-star  rose  beauteous  above  the  fading  day, 
As  to  the  lone  and  silent  beach  the  Virgin  came  to  pray; 
And  hill  and  wave  shone  brightly  in  the  moonlight's  mellow  fall; 
But  the  bank  of  green  where  Mary  knelt  was  brightest  of  them 
all. 

Slow  moving  o'er  the  waters,  a  gallant  bark  appeared, 

And  her  joyous  crew  look'd  from  the  deck  as  to  the  land  she 

near'd; 

To  the  calm  and  shelter'd  haven  she  floated  like  a  swan, 
And  her  wings  of  snow  o'er  the  waves   below  in  pride  and 

beauty  shone. 

The  master  saw  our  Lady  as  he  stood  upon  the  prow, 

And  mark'd  the  whiteness  of  her  robe  and  the  radiance  of   her 

brow; 

Her  arms  were  folded  gracefully  upon  her  stainless  breast, 
And  her  eyes  looked  up  among  the  stars  to  Him  her  soul  lov'd 

best. 

He  show'd  her  to  his  sailors,  and  he  hail'd  her  with  a  cheer; 
And  on  the  kneeling  Virgin  they  gazed  with  laugh  and  jeer; 
And  madly  swore,  a  form  so  fair  they  never  saw  before; 
And  they  cursed  the  faint  and  lagging  breeze  that  kept  them 
from  the  shore 


220  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

The  ocean  from  its  bosom  shook  off  the  moonlight  sheen, 
And  up  its  wrathful  billows  rose  to  vindicate  their  Queen; 
And  a  cloud  came  o'er  the  heavens,  and  a  darkness  o'er  the  land, 
And  the  scoffing  crew  beheld  no  more  that  Lady  on  the  strand. 

Out  burst  the  pealing  thunder,  and  the  lightning  leap'd  about, 
And  rushing  with  his  watery  war,  the  tempest  gave  a  shout, 
And  that  vessel  from  a  mountain  wave  came  down  with  thun- 

d'ring  shock; 
And  her  timbers  flew  like  scatter'd  spray  on  Inchidony's  rock. 

Then  loud  from  all  that  guilty  crew  one  shriek  rose  wild  and 

high; 
But  the  angry  surge  swept  over  them  and  hush'd  their  gurgling 

cry; 

And  with  a  hoarse  exulting  tone  the  tempest  pass'd  away, 
And  down,  still  chafing  from  their  strife,  the  indignant  waters 

lay. 

When  the  calm  and  purple  morning  shone  out  on  high  Dunmore, 
Full  many  a  mangled  corpse  was  seen  on  Inchidony's  shore; 
And  to  this  day  the  fisherman  shows  where  the  scoffers  sank; 
And  still  he  calls  that  hillock  green  the  * '  Virgin  Mary's  Bank. " 

THE  STAR  OF  HEAVEN. 

SHINE  on,  thou  bright  beacon,  unclouded  and  free 
From  thy  high  place  of  calmness,  o'er  life's  troubled  sea* 
Its  morning  of  promise,  its  smooth  waves  are  gone, 
And  the  billows  roar  wildly;  then,  bright  one,  shine  on. 

The  wings  of  the  tempest  may  rush  o'er  thy  ray; 
But  tranquil  thou  smilest,  undimmed  by  its  sway; 
High,  high  o'er  the  worlds 'where  storms  are  unknown 
Thou  dwellest  all  beauteous,  all  glorious, — alone. 


JAMES  JOSEPH   CALLANAN.  221 

From  the  deep  womb  of  darkness  the  lightning-flash  leaps , 
O'er  the  bark  of  my  fortunes  each  mad  billow  sweeps; 
From  the  port  of  her  safety  by  warring- winds  driven, 
And  no  light  o'er  her  course — but  yon  lone  one  of  Heaven. 

Yet  fear  not,  thou  frail  one,  the  hour  may  be  near, 
When  our  own  sunny  headland  far  off  shall  appear; 
When  the  voice  of  the  storm  shall  be  silent  and  past, 
In  some  Island  of  Heaven  we  may  anchor  at  last. 

But,  bark  of  eternity,  where  art  thou  now? 
The  wild  waters  shriek  o'er  each  plunge  of  thy  prow, 
On  the  world's  dreary  ocean  thus  shattered  and  tost. 
Then,  lone  one,  shine  on!  "  If  I  lose  thee,  I'm  lost!" 


O  SAY,  MY  BEOWN  DRIMIN. 

[From  the  Irish.] 

0  SAY,  my  brown  Drimin,  thou  silk  of  the  kine, 
Where,  where  are  thy  strong  ones,  last  hope  of  thy  line? 
Too  deep  and  too  long  is  the  slumber  they  take; 
At  the  loud  call  of  Freedom  why  don't  they  awake  ? 

My  strong  ones  have  fallen — from  the  bright  eye  of  day, 
All  darkly  they  sleep  in  their  dwelling  of  clay; 
The  cold  turf  is  o'er  them; — they  hear  not  my  cries, 
And,  since  Louis  no  aid  gives,  I  cannot  arise. 

Oh!  where  art  thou,  Louis?     Our  eyes  are  on  thee! 
Are  thy  lofty  ships  walking  in  strength  o'er  the  sea  ? 
In  Freedom's  last  strife  if  you  linger  or  quail, 
No  morn  e'er  shall  break  on  the  night  of  the  Gael. 


222  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

But  should  the  king's  son,  now  bereft  of  his  right, 
Come,  proud  in  his  strength,  for  his  country  to  tight, 
Like  leaves  on  the  trees  will  new  people  arise, 
And  deep  from  their  mountains  shout  back  to  my  cries. 

When  the  Prince,  now  an  exile,  shall  come  for  his  own, 
The  isles  of  his  father,  his  rights  and  his  throne, 
My  people  in  battle  the  Saxon  will  meet, 
And  kick  them  before,  like  old  shoes  from  their  feet. 

O'er  mountains  and  valleys  they'll  press  on  their  rout ; 

The  five  ends  of  Erin  shall  ring  to  their  shout. 

My  sons  all  united  shall  bless  the  glad  day 

When  the  flint-hearted  Saxons  they've  chased  far  away. 


LAMENT  FOR  IRELAND. 

[From  the  Irish.] 

How  dimm'd  is  the  glory  that  circled  the  Gael, 
And  fall'n  the  high  people  of  green  Innisfail ! 
The  sword  of  the  Saxon  is  red  with  their  gore, 
And  the  mighty  of  nations  is  mighty  no  more ! 

Like  a  bark  on  the  ocean,  long  shattered  and  tost, 

On  the  land  of  your  fathers  at  length  you  are  lost; 

The  hand  of  the  spoiler  is  stretched  on  your  plains, 

And  you're  doom'd  from  your  cradle  to  bondage  and  chains. 

Oh,  where  is  the  beauty  that  beam'd  on  thy  brow? 
Strong  hand  in  the  battle,  how  weak  art  thou  now! 
That  heart  is  now  broken  that  never  would  quail, 
And  thy  high  songs  are  turned  into  weeping  and  wail. 


JAMES  JOSEPH   CALLANAN.  223 

Bright  shades  of  our  sires!  from  your  home  in  the  skies, 
Oh,  blast  not  your  sons  with  the  scorn  of  your  eyes! 
Proud  spirit  of  Gollam ,  how  red  is  thy  cheek , 
For  thy  freemen  are  slaves,  and  thy  mighty  are  weak! 

O'Nial  of  the  hostages!    Con,  whose  high  name 
On  a  hundred  red  battles  has  floated  to  fame ! 
Let  the  long  grasses  sigh  undisturbed  o'er  thy  sleep; 
Arise  not  to  shame  us,  awake  not  to  weep. 

In  thy  broad  wing  of  darkness  enfold  us,  O  night! 
Withhold,  O  bright  sun,  the  reproach  of  thy  light! 
For  freedom  or  valour  no  more  can'st  thou  see 
In  the  home  of  the  brave,  in  the  isles  of  the  free. 

Affliction's  dark  waters  your  spirits  have  bow'd, 
And  oppression  hath  wrapped  all  your  land  in  its  shroud, 
Since  first  from  the  Brehon's  pure  justice  you  stray'd , 
And  bent  to  those  laws  the  proud  Saxon  has  made. 

We  know  not  our  country,  so  strange  is  her  face; 
Her  sons,  once  her  glory,  are  now  her  disgrace. 
Gone,  gone  is  the  beauty  of  fair  Innisfail, 
For  the  stranger  now  rules  in  the  land  of  the  Gael. 

Where,  where  are  the  woods  that  oft  rung  to  your  cheer, 
Where  you  waked  the  wild  chase  of  the  wolf  and  the  deer  ? 
Can  those  dark  heights,  with  ramparts  all  frowning  and  riven, 
Be  the  hills  where  your  forests  wav'd  brightly  in  heaven  ? 

O  bondsmen  of  Egypt,  no  Moses  appears, 

To  light  your  dark  steps  through  this  desert  of  tears! 

Degraded  and  lost  ones,  no  Hector  is  nigh 

To  lead  you  to  freedom,  or  teach  you  to  die! 


224  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

ADDRESS  TO  GREECE. 

NURSLING  of  freedom !  from  her  mountain  nest 

She  early  taught  thy  eagle  wing  to  soar, 
With  eye  undazzled  and  with  fearless  breast, 

To  heights  of  glory  never  reached  before. 

Far  on  the  cliff  of  time,  all  grand  and  hoar, 
Proud  of  her  charge,  thy  lofty  deeds  she  rears 

With  her  own  deathless  trophies,  blazon'd  o'er, 
As  mind-marks  for  the  gaze  of  after  years — 
Vainly  they  journey  on — no  match  for  thee  appears. 

But  be  not  thine,  fair  land,  the  dastard  strife 

Of  yon  degenerate  race — along  their  plains 
They  heard  that  call — they  started  into  life; 

They  felt  their  limbs  a  moment  free  from  chains. 

The  foe  came  on: — but  shall  the  minstrel's  strains 
Be  sullied  by  the  story  ? — hush,  my  lyre. 

Leave  them  amidst  the  desolate  waste  that  reigns 
Round  Tyranny's  dark  march  of  lava  fire — 
Leave  them  amid  their  shame — their  bondage  to  expire. 

Oh,  be  not  thine  such  strife! — there  heaves  no  sod 

Along  thy  fields,  but  hides  a  hero's  head; 
And  when  you  charge  for  freedom  and  for  God 

Then — then  be  mindfuj  of  the  mighty  dead! 

Think  that  your  field  of  battle  is  the  bed 
Where  slumber  hearts  that  never  feared  a  foe, 

And  while  you  feel,  at  each  electric  tread, 
Their  spirit  through  your  veins  indignant  glow, 
Strong  be  your  sabre's  sway  for  freedom's  vengeful  blow. 


JAMES  JOSEPH   CALL  AN  AN.  -25 

0 ,  sprung  from  those  who  by  Eurotas  dwelt ! 

Have  ye  forgot  their  deeds  on  yonder  plain, 
When,  pouring  through  the  pass,  the  Persian  felt 

The  band  of  Sparta  was  not  there  in  vain  ? 

Have  ye  forgot  how  o'er  the  glorious  slain 
Greece  bade  her  bard  th'  immortal  story  write  ? 

Oh !  if  your  bosoms  one  proud  thought  retain 
Of  those  who  perish'd  in  that  deathless  fight, 
Awake!  like  them  be  free,  or  sleep  with  names  as  bright' 

Relics  of  heroes,  from  your  glorious  bed, 

Amid  your  glorious  slumbers  do  ye  feel 
The  rush  of  war  loud  thundering  o'er  your  head  ? 

Hear  ye  the  sound  of  Hellas'  charging  steel  ? 

Hear  ye  their  victor  cry  ? — the  Moslems  reel ! 
On,  Greeks!  for  freedom  on, — they  fly — they  fly' 

Oh,  how  the  aged  mountains  know  that  peal, 
Through  all  their  echoing  tops,  while,  grand  and  high, 
Thermopylae's  deep  voice  gives  back  the  proud  reply  1 

Oh !  for  the  pen  of  him  whose  bursting  tear 

Of  childhood  told  his  fame  in  after  days. 
Oh!  for  that  bard,  to  Greece  and  freedom  dear, 

The  bard  of  Lesbos,  with  his  kindling  lays. 

To  hymn,  regenerate  land,  thy  lofty  praise; 
Thy  brave  unaided  strife — to  tell  the  shame 

Of  Europe's  freest  sons,  who,  'mid  the  rays 
Through  time's  far  vista  blazing  from  thy  name, 
Caught  no  ennobling  glow  from  that  immortal  flame. 


16 


226  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

Not  even  the  deeds  of  him,  who,  late  afar, 
Shook  the  astonished  nations  with  his  might ; 

Not  even  the  deeds  of  her,  whose  wings  ol  war 
Wide  o'er  the  ocean  stretch  their  victor  flight; — 
Not  they  shall  rise  with  half  th*  unbroken  light 

Above  the  waves  of  time,  fair  Greece,  as  thine; 
Earth  never  yet  produced  in  Heaven's  high  sight, 

Through  all  her  climates,  offerings  so  divine, 

As  thy  proud  sons  have  paid  at  freedom's  sacred  shrine. 

Ye  isles  of  beauty,  from  your  dwelling  blue, 
Lift  up  to  Heaven  that  shout  unheard  too  long; 

Ye  mountains,  steep'd  in  glory's  distant  hue, 
If  with  you  lives  the  memory  of  that  song 
Which  freedom  taught  you,  the  proud  strain  prolong: 

Echo  each  name  that  in  her  cause  hath  died, 
Till  grateful  Greece  enrol  them  with  the  throng 

Of  her  illustrious  sons,  who  on  the  tide 

Of  her  immortal  verse  eternally  shall  guide. 

THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  MACHABEES. 

THAT  mother  viewed  the  scene  of  blood; 

Her  six  unconquer'd  sons  were  gone. 
Tearless  she  viewed — beside  her  stood 

Her  last — her  youngest — dearest  one; 
He  looked  upon  her  and  he  smiled. 
Oh !  will  she  save  that  only  child  ? 


JAMES  JOSEPH  CALLANAN.  227 

By  all  my  love— my  son,"  she  said, 

"  The  breast  that  nursed— the  womb  that  bore,— 
Th'  unsleeping  care  that  watch'd  thee,  fed,— 

Till  manhood's  years  required  no  more; 
By  all  I've  wept  and  pray'd  for  thee, 
Now,  now,  be  firm  and  pity  me. 

Look,  I  beseech  thee,  on  yon  heaven, 

With  its  high  field  of  azure  light; 
Look  on  this  earth,  to  mankind  given, 

Array'd  in  beauty  and  in  might ; 
And  think,  nor  scorn  thy  mother's  prayer, 
On  him  who  said  it  and  they  were! 

So  shalt  thou  not  this  tyrant  fear, 

Nor  recreant  shun  the  glorious  strife : 

Behold!  thy  battle-field  is  near; 

Then  go,  my  son,  nor  heed  thy  life: 

Go,  like  thy  faithful  brothers  die, 

That  I  may  meet  you  all  on  high." 

Like  arrow  from  the  bended  bow, 

He  sprang  upon  the  bloody  pile — 
Like  sunrise  on  the  morning's  snow 

Was  that  heroic  mother's  smile: 
He  died ! — nor  fear'd  the  tyrant's  nod— 
For  Judah's  law, — and  Judah's  God. 


228  IBISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

MARY  MAGDALEN. 

To  the  hall  of  that  feast  came  the  sinful  and  fair: 
She  heard  in  the  city  that  Jesus  was  there, 
She  mark'd  not  the  splendor  that  blazed  on  their  board, 
But  silently  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  Lord. 

The  hair  from  her  forehead,  so  sad  and  so  meek, 
Hung  dark  o'er  the  blushes  that  burn'd  on  her  cheek; 
And  so  still  and  so  lowly  she  bent  in  her  shame, 
It  seem'd  as  her  spirit  had  flown  from  its  frame. 

The  frown  and  the  murmur  went  round  through  them  all, 
That  one  so  unhallow'd  should  tread  in  that  hall. 
And  some  said  the  poor  would  be  objects  more  meet, 
For  the  wealth  of  the  perfumes  she  shower'd  at  His  feet. 

She  mark'd  but  her  Saviour,  she  spoke  but  in  sighs, 
She  dared  not  look  up  to  the  heaven  of  His  eyes; 
And  the  hot  tears  gush'd  forth  at  each  heave  of  her  breast. 
As  her  lips  to  His  sandals  she  throbbingly  press'd. 

On  the  cloud  after  tempests,  as  shine th  the  bow, 
In  the  glance  of  the  sunbeam,  as  melteth  the  snow, 
He  looked  on  that  lost  one — her  sins  were  forgiven; 
And  Mary  went  forth  in  the  beauty  of  Heaven. 

LINES  TO  THE  BLESSED  SACRAMENT. 

THOU  dear  and  mystic  semblance 

Before  whose  form  I  kneel, 
I  tremble  as  I  think  upon 

The  glory  thou  dost  veil, 


JAMES  JOSEPH   CALLANAN. 

And  ask  myself,  can  he,  who  late 

The  ways  of  darkness  trod, 
Meet,  face  to  face  and  heart  to  heart, 

His  sin-avenging  God  ? 

My  «,udge  and  my  Creator, 

If  I  presume  to  stand 
Amid  Thy  pure  and  holy  ones, 

It  is  at  Thy  command, 
To  lay  before  Thy  mercy's  seat 

My  sorrows  and  my  fears, 
To  wail  my  life  and  kiss  Thy  feet 

In  silence  and  in  tears. 

Oh,  God,  that  dreadful  moment, 

In  sickness  and  in  strife , 
When  Death  and  Hell  seemed  watching 

For  the  last  weak  pulse  of  life. 
When  on  the  waves  of  sin  and  pain 

My  drowning  soul  was  tost, 
Thy  hand  of  mercy  saved  me  then, 

When  hope  itself  was  lost ! 

I  hear  Thy  voice,  my  Saviour, 

It  speaks  within  my  breast, 
"Oh,  come  to  Me,  thou  weary  one, 

I'll  hush  thy  cares  to  rest." 
Then  from  the  parched  and  burning  waste 

Of  sin,  where  long  I  trod, 
I  come  to  Thee,  thou  stream  of  Life, 

My  Saviour  and  my  God. 


230  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 


THE   EXILE'S   FAREWELL. 

ADIEU,  my  own  dear  Erin, 

Reeeive  my  fond,  my  last  adieu; 

I  go,  but  with  me  bearing 

A  heart  still  fondly  turned  to  you. 

The  charms  that  nature  gave  thee 

With  lavish  hand,  shall  cease  to  smile, 

And  the  soul  of  friendship  leave  thee, 
Ere  I  forget  my  own  green  isle. 

Ye  fields  where  heroes  bounded 

To  meet  the  foes  of  liberty; 
Ye  hills  that  oft  resounded 

The  joyful  shouts  of  victory; 

Obscured  is  all  your  glory, 

Forgotten  all  your  former  fame, 

And  the  minstrel's  mournful  story 
Now  calls  a  tear  at  Erin's  name. 

But  still  the  day  may  brighten 

When  those  tears  shall  cease  to  flow, 

And  the  shout  of  freedom  lighten 
Spirits  now  so  drooping  low. 

Then,  should  the  glad  breeze  blowing 

Convey  the  echo  o'er  the  sea, 
My  heart  with  transport  glowing 

Shall  bless  the  hand  that  made  thee  free. 


JAMES  JOSEPH  CALL  AN  AN.  231 


LINES  TO  ERIN. 

WHEN  dullness  shall  chain  the  wild  harp  that  would  praise  thee, 
When  its  last  sigh  of  freedom  is  heard  on  thy  shore, 
When  its  raptures  shall  bless  the  false  heart  that  betrays  thee, 
Oh,  then,  dearest  Erin,  I'll  love  thee  no  more! 

When  thy  sons  are  less  tame  than  their  own  ocean  waters, 
When  their  last  flash  of  wit  and  of  genius  is  o'er, 
When  virtue  and  beauty  forsake  thy  young  daughters, 
Oh,  then,  dearest  Erin,  I'll  love  thee  no  more! 

When  the  sun  that  now  holds  his  bright  path  o'er  thy  mountains, 
Forgets  the  green  fields  that  he  smiled  on  before, 
When  no  moonlight  shall  sleep  on  thy  lakes  and  thy  fountains, 
Oh,  then,  dearest  Erin,  I'll  love  thee  no  more! 

When  the  name  of  the  Saxon  and  tyrant  shall  sever, 
When  the  freedom  you  lost  you  no  longer  deplore, 
When  the  thoughts  of  your  wrongs  shall  be  sleeping  forever, 
Oh,  then,  dearest  Erin,  I'll  love  thee  no  more! 

STANZAS. 

STILL  green  are  thy  mountains  and  bright  is  thy  shore, 
And  the  voice  of  thy  fountains  is  heard  as  of  yore. 
The  sun  o'er  thy  valleys,  dear  Erin,  shines  on, 
Though  thy  bard  and  thy  lover  forever  is  gone. 

Nor  shall  he,  an  exile,  thy  glad  scenes  forget, 
The  friends  fondly  loved, 'ne'er  again  to  be  met — 
The  glens  where  he  mused  on  the  deeds  of  his  nation, 
And  waked  his  young  harp  with  a  wild  inspiration. 


232  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Still,  still,  though  between  us  may  roll  the  broad  ocean, 
Will  I  cherish  thy  name  with  the  same  deep  devotion ; 
And  though  minstrels  more  brilliant  my  place  may  supply, 
None  loves  you  more  fondly,  more  truly  than  I. 


A  LAY  OF  MIZEN  HEAD. 

IT  was  the  noon  of  Sabbath,  the  spring- wind  swept  the  sky, 
And  o'er  the  heaven's  savannah  blue  the  boding  scuds  did  fly, 
And  a  stir  was  heard  amongst  the  waves  o'er  all  their  fields  of 

might, 
Like  the  distant  hum  of  hurrying  hosts  when  they  muster  for 

the  fight. 

The  fisher  marked  the  changing  heaven  and  high  his  pinnace 

drew, 

And  to  her  wild  and  rocky  home  the  screaming  sea-bird  flew; 
But  safely  in  Cork  haven  the  sheltered  bark  may  rest 
Within  the  zone  of  ocean  hills  that  girds  its  beauteous  breast. 

Amongst  the  stately  vessels  in  that  calm  port  was  one 
Whose  streamers  waved  out  joyously  to  hail  the  Sabbath  sun; 
And  scattered  o'er  her  ample  deck  were  careless  hearts  and  free, 
That  laughed  to  hear  the  rising  wind  and  mocked  the  frowning 
sea. 

One  youth  alone  bent  darkly  above  the  heaving  tide — 
His  heart  was  with  his  native  hills  and  with  his  beauteous  bride, 
And  with  the  rush  of  feelings  deep  his  manly  bosom  strove, 
As  he  thought  of  her  he  had  left  afar  in  the  spring-time  of 
their  love. 


JAMES  JOSEPH  CALLANAN.  233 

What  checks  the  seaman's  jovial  mirth  and  clouds  his  sunny 

brow? 
Why  does  he  look  with  troubled  gaze  from  port-hole ,  side  and 

prow? 

A  moment — 't  was  a  death-like  pause — that  signal !  can  it  be  ? 
That  signal  quickly  orders  the  ' '  Confiance  "  to  sea. 

Then  there  was  springing  up  aloft  and  hurrying  down  below, 
And  the  windlass  hoarsely  answered  to  the  hoarse  and  wild 

"  heave  yo;" 

And  vows  were  briefly  spoken  then  that  long  had  silent  lain, 
And  hearts  and  lips  together  met  that  ne'er  may  meet  again. 

Now  darker  lowered  the  threatening  sky  and  wilder  heaved  the 

wave, 

And  through  the  cordage  fearfully  the  wind  began  to  rave; 
The  sails  are  set,  the  anchor  weighed — what  recks  that  gallant 

ship? 
Blow  on !    Upon  her  course  she  springs  like  greyhound  from  the 

slip. 

O,  heavens!  it  was  a  glorious  sight,  that  stately  ship  to  see, 
In  the  beauty  of  her  gleaming  sails  and  her  pennant  floating  free , 
As  to  the  gale  with  bending  tops  she  made  her  haughty  bow, 
And  proudly  spurned  the  waves  that  burned  around  her  flash- 
ing prow ! 

The  sun  went  down  and  through  the  clouds  looked  out  the 

evening  star, 

And  westward,  from  old  Ocean's  head,  beheld  that  ship  afar. 
Still  onward  fearlessly  she  flew,  in  her  snowy  pinion-sweep, 
Like  a  bright  and  beauteous  spirit  o'er  the  mountains  of  the  deep. 


IUBITEBSITT 


234  IRISH   POETS   AKD  NOVELISTS: 

It  blows  a  fearful  tempest— 'tis  the  dead  watch  of  the  night — 
The  Mizen's  giant  brow  is  streaked  with  red  and  angry  light, 
And  by  its  far  illuming  glance  a  struggling  bark  I  see. 
Wear,  wear!  the  land,  ill-fated  one,  is  close  beneath  your  lee! 

Another  flash — they  still  hold  out  for  home  and  love  and  life, 
And  under  close-reefed  topsails  maintain  th'  unequal  strife. 
Now  out  the  rallying  foresail  flies,   the  last,  the  desperate 

chance- 
Can  that  be  she  ?     Oh,  heavens,  it  is  the  luckless  "  Confiance!" 

Hark !  heard  you  not  that  dismal  cry  ?     T  was  stifled  in  the 

gale— 
Oh!  clasp,  young  bride,  thine  orphan  child  and  raise  the  widow's 

wail! 

The  morning  rose  in  purple  light  o'er  ocean's  tranquil  sleep — 
But  o'er  their  gallant  quarry  lay  the  spoilers  of  the  deep. 


REV.  MICHAEL  MULLIN. 

(RIN,  prolific  land  of  genius,  has  given  birth  to 
the  Poet-Priest  and  litterateur  whose  life  and 
labors  we  briefly  here  indite.  Like  many  another 
gifted  Gael,  he  died  far  away  from  the  land  which 
birth  and  boyhood  had  endeared  to  him  by  a  thou- 
sand sacrifices  and  hallowed  associations. 

Loughrea,  on  the  banks  of  the  "lordly  Shannon," 
claims  the  honor  of  giving  birth  to  the  Rev.  Father 
Mullin  in  the  year  1833,  when  Ireland  was  fast 
recovering  from  the  baneful  effects  of  the  odious 
Penal  laws.  O'Connell  was  then  the  uncrowned 
king  of  his  native  land.  Three  years  before  the 
birth  of  our  poet,  Catholic  Emancipation,  through 
the  matchless  statesmanship  of  the  Liberator,  became 
a  startling  reality,  and  the  middle  class  of  Catholics, 
who  had  lost  neither  the  virtues  nor  the  traditions 
of  their  race,  could  now  reasonably  indulge  in  the 
hope  of  educating  their  sons  for  the  learned  profes- 
sions. The  parents  of  Michael  Mullin  dedicated 
him  to  the  service  of  the  Church  at  the  baptismal 
font,  and  carefully  shaped  his  career  and  studies  to 
the  destined  goal.  His  primary  education  was  re- 
ceived at  St.  Jarlath's  College,  the  great  seminary  of 
the  West,  and  the  alma  mater  of  many  a  learned 

(235) 


236 


IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 


Irishman.  Here  young  Mullin  gave  unmistakable 
evidence  of  the  talents  he  possessed,  and  proved  to 
his  professors  that  his  mind  was  cast  in  no  ordinary 
mould.  With  an  enthusiasm  which  overcomes  all 
obstacles  he  read  whatever  national  literature  had 
escaped  the  vandalism  of  English  officials  in  Ireland, 


and  stored  away  this  well-digested  knowledge  in  his 
capacious  mind  for  future  use. 

During  the  agitation  of  1847  he  entered  the  Na- 
tional Ecclesiastical  Seminary  at  Maynooth,  near 
Dublin,  where  he  was  destined  to  win  high  honors 
in  scholarship,  and  where  the  higher  honors  and 
dignity  of  the  Priesthood  crowned  the  labors  of  his 
youth  and  noble  manhood. 


REV.  MICHAEL  MULLIN.  237 

It  has  been  said  with  truth  that  among  the  six  hun- 
dred students  who  thronged  the  recreation  grounds 
and  lecture  halls  of  that  nohle  institution,  young  Mr. 
Mullin  never  made  an  enemy.  His  nature  was  such 
as  to  attract  and  edify  all  who  came  in  close  relation- 
ship with  him.  He  was  gentle  and  retiring  as  a  con- 
vent girl,  simple  and  unassuming  as  a  child.  While 
yet  a  mere  }routh  the  patriotic  genius  of  the  student 
began  to  assert  itself,  and  the  editors  of  the  Nation 
soon  discovered  in  him  one  of  their  most  valued  con- 
tributors of  prose  and  verse.  From  his  initial  con- 
tribution "  Clonfert "  was  able  to  take  front  rank 
among  a  staff  of  writers  that  had  attracted  the  atten- 
tion and  commanded  the  admiration  of  Lord  Macau- 
lay  and  some  others  of  his  coterie. 

During  his  connection  with  the  Nation  he  wrote 
many  exquisite  lyrics  and  some  ballads  of  superior 
style  and  sentiment.  As  a  specimen  of  the  latter 
we  reproduce  here  the  stirring  and  widely-popular 
ballad,  which  first  appeared  under  one  of  his  assumed 
names  in  the  columns  of  the  Nation: 

\ 

ARTHUR  McCOY. 

WHILE  the  snow-flakes  of  winter  are  falling 

On  mountain,  and  house-top  and  tree, 
Come  olden,  weird  voices  recalling 

The  homes  of  Hy-Faly  to  me; 


238  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

The  ramble  by  river  and  wild-wood , 
The  legends  of  mountain  and  glen, 

When  the  bright,  magic  mirror  of  childhood 
Made  heroes  and  giants  of  men. 

Then  I  had  my  drearnings  ideal, 

My  prophets  and  heroes  sublime, 
Yet  I  found  one,  true,  living  and  real, 

Surpass  all  the  fictions  of  time: 
Whose  voice  thrilled  my  heart  to  its  centre, 

Whose  form  tranced  my  soul  and  my  eye; 
A  temple  no  treason  could  enter: 

My  hero  was  Arthur  McCoy. 


As  the  strong  mountain  tower  spreads  its  arms, 

Dark,  shadowy,  silent  and  tall, 
In  our  tithe-raids  and  midnight  alarms, 

His  bosom  gave  refuge  to  all. 
If  a  mind,  clear  and  calm,  and  expanded, 

A  soul  ever  soaring  and  high, 
'Mid  a  host — gave  a  right  to  command  it — 

A  hero  was  Arthur  McCoy. 

While  he  knelt  with  a  Christian  demeanor, 

To  his  priest  or  his  Maker,  alone, 
He  scorned  the  vile  slave  or  retainer 

That  crouched  round  the  castle  or  throne. 
The  Tudor,  the  Guelph,  the  Pretender, 

Were  tyrants,  alike,  branch  and  stem; 
But  who'd  free  our  fair  land,  and  defend  her, 

A  nation,  were  monarchs  to  him. 


I;EV.  MICHAEL    MULLIN. 

And  this  faith  in  good  works  he  attested , 

When  Tone  linked  the  true  hearts  and  brave, 
Every  billow  of  danger  he  breasted — 

His  sword-flash  the  crest  of  its  wave. 
A  standard  he  captured  in  Gorey , 

A  sword-cut  and  ball  through  the  thigh 
Were  among  the  mementoes  of  glory 

Recorded  of  Arthur  McCoy. 

Long  the  quest  of  the  law  and  its  beagles, 

His  covert  the  cave  and  the  tree; 
Though  his  home  was  the  home  of  the  eagles, 

His  soul  was  the  soul  of  the  free. 
No  toil,  no  defeat  could  enslave  it, 

Nor  franchise  nor  ''Amnesty  Bill"- 
No  Lord,  but  the  Maker  who  gave  it, 

Could  curb  the  high  pride  of  his  will. 

With  the  gloom  of  defeat  ever  laden — 

Seldom  seen  at  the  hurling  or  dance, 
Where,  through  blushes,  the  eye  of  the  maiden 

Looks  out  for  her  lover's  advance ; 
And  whenever  he  stood  to  behold  it , 

A  curl  of  the  lip ,  or  a  sigh , 
Was  the  silent  reproach  that  unfolded 

The  feelings  of  Arthur  McCoy 

For  it  told  him  of  freedom  o'ershaded — 
That  the  iron  had  entered  their  veins— 

When  beauty  bears  manhood  degraded, 
And  manhood  's  contented  in  chains. 


240  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

But  he  loved  that  fair  race,  as  a  martyr, 

And  if  his  own  death  could  recall 
The  blessings  of  liberty's  charter, 

His  bosom  had  bled  for  them  all. 

And  he  died  for  his  love.     I  remember, 

On  a  mound  by  the  Shannon's  blue  wave, 
On  a  dark,  snowy  eve  in  December, 

I  knelt  at  the  patriot's  grave. 
The  aged  were  all  heavy-hearted — 

No  cheek  in  the  graveyard  was  dry, 
The  Sun  of  our  hills  had  departed — 

God  rest  you,  old  Arthur  McCoy. 

This  ballad  became  extremely  popular  in  Ireland. 
It  is  to  be  found  in  almost  every  collection  of  Irish 
ballad  poetry  that  has  appeared  during  the  last  forty 
years,  either  in  or  out  of  Ireland. 

Besides  the  ordinary  course  of  studies  in  Maynooth, 
which  occupies  eight  years,  and  embraces  Humani- 
ties, Natural  Philosophy,  Logic  and  Metaphysics, 
Ecclesiastical  History,  Scripture  and  Theology,  young 
Mr.  Mullin  spent  a  term  of  three  years  in  the  "  Dun- 
boyne  Establishment."  A  certificate  for  this  depart- 
ment is  the  highest  literary  honor  that  can  be  con- 
ferred on  a  young  man  in  Maynooth,  and  it  is 
obtained  only  by  men  of  marked  ability.  Here  also 
he  won  distinction  among  the  master  minds  of  his 
country,  and  endeared  himself  to  his  fellow-students. 
Having  completed  his  extra  course  in  Dunboyne,  he 


REV.  MICHAEL  MULLIN.  241 

was  appointed  to  a  Professor's  chair.  For  some  time 
he  lectured  on  English  Rhetoric,  with  honor  to  him- 
self and  the  great  delight  of  the  students.  His 
health,  which  was  never  rugged,  gave  way  about  this 
time,  and  the  brilliant  Rev.  Professor  was  obliged  to 
seek  the  bracing  air  of  his  native  fields  and  floods  in 
the  hope  of  wooing  back  his  vanished  strength  and 
intellectual  vigor. 

Appointed  to  a  curacy  in  his  native  diocese  of 
Clonfert,  he  labored  with  an  earnestness  and  humility 
that  won  the  admiration  of  his  people.  So  well, 
indeed,  did  he  succeed  as  assistant  pastor,  that  the 
Bishop  made  him  administrator  of  his  own  parish 
in  Loughrea.  But  the  man  who  could  lecture  most 
eloquently  on  learned  subjects,  write  like  an  inspired 
prophet  and  labor  zealously  for  the  salvation  of  souls, 
was  by  no  means  a  success  in  the  administration  of 
an  important  parish.  His  tastes  and  mode  of  thought 
were  not  in  that  direction,  and  Father  Mullin  soon, 
resigned  his  charge  into  the  hands  of  his  Bishop, 
with  the  understanding  that  he  would  be  permitted 
to  join  a  religious  order  in  Dublin. 

A  few  months  in  the  close  confinement  of  a 
monastery  convinced  him  that  his  health  was  very 
much  impaired,  and  that  he  must  seek  other  pursuits, 
than  those  of  a  sedentary  life. 


242  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

In  1864  he  reached  the  shores  of  the  New  World, 
whither  the  fame  of  his  genius  and  varied  attainments 
had  preceded  him,  and  where  Archhishop  McCloskey 
received  him  kindly  and  cordially.  The  Archbishop 
of  New  York  made  Father  Mullin  Professor  of 
Metaphysics  and  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  Provincial 
Ecclesiastical  Seminary  at  Troy.  The  duties  of  this 
position  were  too  arduous  for  his  delicate  constitu- 
tion, so  he  was  transferred  to  parochial  work  in  New 
York  City,  where,  his  labor  being  light,  he  devoted 
considerable  of  his  time  to  writing  for  the  Metro- 
politan press.  After  some  time  spent  here,  endeavor- 
ing to 

"  Woo  back  the  withered  flowers  of  health," 

his  physicians  urged  him  to  go  West,  with  the  hope 
that  the  change  of  climate  would  serve  to  prolong 
his  precious  life.  In  the  University  of  Notre  Dame, 
Indiana,  he  taught  a  class,  and  wrote  sketches  for 
the  Ave  Maria. 

In  Chicago  he  became  editor  of  the  Young  Catholic 
Guide,  which  in  his  hands  gathered  new  life  and 
vigor. 

Here  it  was  that  he  learned  the  sad  news  of  the 
death  of  his  parents  in  Ireland.  The  bereavement 
broke  his  tender  and  affectionate  heart,  and  ere  its 
shadows  had  cleared  away  he  followed  them  to  his 
reward. 


REV.  MICHAEL   MULLIN.  243 

He  died  far  away  from  his  own  "sunny  Erin"  on 
the  23d  of  April,  1869,  and  all  that  is  mortal  of  him 
now  lies  in  Calvary  Cemetery,  Chicago,  Illinois. 

His  writings,  which  are  scattered  through  the 
pages  of  different  magazines  arid  periodicals  in  two 
hemispheres,  have  never  been  collected. 

His  best  known  prose  work  is  "  The  Two  Lovers 
of  Flavia  Domitilla,"  which  first  appeared  in  the 
Catholic  World,  and  helped,  very  materially,  that 
magazine  in  the  days  of  its  youth.  This  beautiful 
Catholic  story  suffers  nothing  by  comparison  with 
the  late  Cardinal  Newman's  "Calista."  The  plot  is 
full  of  absorbing  interest,  and  the  style  in  which  it 
is  written  attests  the  oft-repeated  truth  that  "  Father 
Michael  Mullin  was  a  perfect  master  of  English/' 

A  poem  which  he  wrote,  entitled  "  The  Immaculate 
Conception,"  attracted  the  attention  of  the  illustrious 
Cardinal  Wiseman,  who,  in  his  day,  had  no  superior 
as  a  judge  of  the  literary  merit,  of  original  composi- 
tion appearing  in  any  of  the  ancient  or  modern 
languages.  Among  his  writings  in  verse  the  "  Celtic 
Tongue "  is  undoubtedly  the  most  widely  known 
and  best  appreciated.  It  has  the  characteristics  of 
true  Celtic  genius.  With  the  glow  and  fervor  of  the 
Celtic  soul,  it  is  pathetic  and  pithy,  and,  once  read, 
it  haunts  the  memory  like  some  bewitching  spell. 

We  cannot  better  end  this  insufficient  memorial  of 


244  IRISH  POETS  AKD  NOVELISTS: 

a  man  of  brilliant  parts,  of  solid  acquirements  and 
unsullied  patriotism,  than  by  giving  in  full  his 

LAMENT  FOR  THE  CELTIC  TONGUE. 

Tis  fading,  oh,  'tis  fading!  like  the  leaves  upon  the  trees! 
In  murmuring  tone  'tis  dying,  like  the  wail  upon  the  breeze! 
'Tis  swiftly  disappearing,  as  footprints  on  the  shore 
Where  the  Barrow  and  the  Erne,  and  Loch  Swilley's  waters 

roar — 

Where  the  parting  sunbeam  kisses  Lough  Corrib  in  the  West, 
And  Ocean,  like  a  mother,  clasps  the  Shannon  to  her  breast! 
The  language  of  old  Erin,  of  her  history  and  name — 
Of  her  monarchs  and  her  heroes — her  glory  and  her  fame — 
The  sacred  shrine  where  rested,  thro'  sunshine  and  thro'  gloom, 
The  spirit  of  her  martyrs,  as  their  bodies  in  the  tomb; 
The  time- wrought  shell,  where  murmur'd,   'mid   centuries   of 

wrong, 

The  secret  voice  of  Freedom,  in  annal  and  in  song — 
Is  slowly,  surely  sinking  into  silent  death,  at  last, 
To  live  but  in  the  memories  of  those  who  love  the  Past. 

The  olden  tongue  is  sinking  like  a  patriarch  to  rest, 
Whose  youth  beheld  the  Tyrian  on  our  Irish  coasts  a  guest; 
Ere  the  Roman  or  the  Saxon,  the  Norman  or  the  Dane, 
Had  first  set  foot  in  Britain,  o'er  trampled  heaps  of  slain; 
Whose  manhood  saw  the  Druid  rite  at  forest-tree  and  rock— 
And  savage  tribes  of  Britain  round  the  shrines  of  Zernebock; 
And  for  generations  witnessed  all  the  glories  of  the  Gael, 
Since  our  Celtic  sires  sung  war-songs  round  the  sacred  fires  of 
Baal. 


REV.  MICHAEL   MULLIN.  245 

The  tongues  that  saw  its  infancy  are  ranked  among  the  dead, 
And  from  their  graves  have  risen  those  now  spoken  in  their 

stead. 

The  glories  of  old  Erin  with  her  liberty  have  gone, 
Yet   their  halo   linger'd   round   her,  while   the   Gaelic  speech 

lived  on; 

For  'mid  the  desert  of  her  woe ,  a  monument  more  vast 
Than  all  her  pillar-towers,  it  stood — that  old  Tongue  of  the  Past! 
T  is  leaving,  and  for  ever,  the  soil  that  gave  it  birth, 
Soon — very  soon,  its  moving  tones  shall  ne'er  be  heard  on  earth. 

O'er  the  island  dimly  fading,  as  a  circle  o'er  the  wave — 
Receding,  as  its  people  lisp  the  language  of  the  slave, 
And  with  it,  too,  seem  fading,  as  sunset  into  night, 
The  scattered  rays  of  liberty  that  lingered  in  its  light. 
For  ah!  tho'  long,  with  filial  love,  it  clung  to  motherland, 
And  Irishmen  were  Irish  still,  in  language,  heart  and  hand; 
T'  install  its  Saxon  rival,  proscribed  it  soon  became, 
And  Irishmen  are  Irish  now  in  nothing  but  in  name ; 
The  Saxon  chain  our  rights  and  tongues  alike  doth  hold  in  thrall. 
Save  where  amid  the  Connaught  wilds  and  hills  of  Donegal — 
And  by  the  shores  of  Munster,  like  the  broad  Atlantic  blast, 
The  olden  language  lingers  yet  and  binds  us  to  the  Past. 

Thro'  cold  neglect  't  is  dying  now;  a  stranger  on  our  shore! 
No  Tara's  hall  re-echoes  to  its  music  as  of  yore- 
No  Lawrence  fires  our  Celtic  clans  round  leaguered  Athaclee — 
No  Shannon  wafts  from  Limerick's  towers  their  war-songs  to 

the  sea. 
Ah !  magic  Tongue ,  that  round  us  wove  its  spells  so  soft  and 

dear ! 
Ah!  pleasant  Tongue,  whose  murmurs  were  as  music  to  the  ear! 


246  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Ah!   glorious  Tongue,  whose  accents  could  each  Celtic  heart 

enthrall ! 
Ah!  rushing  Tongue,  that  sounded  like  the  swollen  torrent's 

fall! 

The  Tongue,  that  in  the  Senate  was  lightning  flashing  bright — 
Whose  echo  in  the  battle  was  the  thunder  in  its  might ! 
That  Tongue,  which  once  in  chieftain's  hall  poured  loud  the 

minstrel  lay, 

As  chieftain,  serf,  or  minstrel  old,  is  silent  there  to-day! 
That  Tongue  whose  shout  dismayed  the  foe  at  Cong  and  Mul- 

laghmast, 
Like  those  who  nobly  perished  there,  is  numbered  with  the  Past! 

The  Celtic  Tongue  is  passing  and  we  stand  so  coldly  by — 
Without  a  pang  within  the  heart,  a  tear  within  the  eye — 
Without  one  pulse  for  Freedom  stirred,  one  effort  made  to  save 
The  language  of  our  fathers  from  dark  oblivion's  grave ! 
Oh,  Erin!  vain  your  efforts — your  prayers  for  Freedom's  crown, 
Whilst  offered  in  the  language  of  the  foe  that  clove  it  down; 
Be  sure  that  tyrants  ever  with  an  art  from  darkness  sprung, 
Would  make  the  conquered  nation  slaves  alike  in  limb  and 

tongue. 
Russia's  great  Czar  ne'er  stood  secure  o'er  Poland's  shattered 

frame. 

Until  he  trampled  from  her  heart  the  tongue  that  bore  her  name. 
Oh,  Irishmen,  be  Irish  still!  stand  for  the  dear  old  tongue 
Which,  as  ivy  to  a  ruin,  to  your  native  land  has  clung! 
Oh,  snatch  this  relic  from  the  wreck,  the  only  and  the  last, 
And  cherish  in  your  heart  of  hearts  the  language  of  the  Past: 


ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE. 

|R.  ROBERT  D.  JOYCE  was  born  in  the  village 
of  Glenisheen,  Limerick,  Ireland,  in  the  year 
of  our  Lord,  1830.  He  came  of  an  old  family  well  and 
widely  known  within  the  borders  of  Galway  for 
daring  as  well  as  devotion  to  the  cause  of  native 
land.  The  stock  also  produced  many  men  of  letters. 

The  mother  of  our  author  was  Elizabeth  O'Dwyer, 
a  lineal  descendant  of  the  renowned  bard  and  hunts- 
man, John  O'Dwyer  of  the  Glens — "  Shawn  O'Dhear 
na  Gleanna" — who  after  the  fall  of  Limerick  became 
a  distinguished  officer  in  the  French  army. 

In  the  village  school  young  Joyce  evinced  great 
aptitude  for  learning,  and  gave  promise  of  a  bright 
future.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  languages,  and 
when  at  an  early  age  he  went  to  Dublin  to  com- 
plete his  education,  his  familiarity  with  classic  lore 
astonished  those  who  became  his  preceptors.  His 
college  career  was  marked  with  great  success;  and 
having  secured  a  medical  diploma  in  the  Queen's 
College,  Dr.  Joyce  was  appointed  Professor  of  Eng- 
lish Literature  in  the  Preparatory  Department  of  the 
Catholic  University.  Soon  after  he  was  elected  a 
member  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  Dublin,  having 

(247) 


248 


IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 


for  sponsors  such  distinguished  men  as  the  Earl 
of  Dunraven  and  Professor  Ingram,  the  author  of 
"  Who  Fears  to  Speak  of  Ninety-eight  ?" 

Though  these  honors  came  thick  and  fast  upon  the 
talented  young  medico  and  litterateur,  they  did  not 


satisfy  him.  British  rule  in  Ireland  did  not  suit  his 
ideas  of  freedom,  and  he  could  not  and  would  not 
enjoy  such  honors  while  his  country  smarted  under 
the  tyrant's  lash.  His  sympathy  was  with  the 
Fenian  movement  for  Irish  Independence,  and  his 
pen  contributed  much,  both  in  prose  and  verse  to 


ROBERT   DWYEB   JOYCE.  249 

fan  the  flame  of  rebellion.  The  eyes  of  English 
officials  were  upon  him  and  he  knew  it.  Still  greater 
honors,  and  positions  of  emolument  awaited  him, 
could  he  only  be  prevailed  upon  to  trample  under 
foot  his  national  aspirations  and  go  over  to  the  ranks 
of  his  country's  oppressors. 

Rather  than  surrender  his  patriotic  principles, 
he  followed  the  heroic  example  of  his  ancestors  and 
went  into  voluntary  exile.  In  1866  he  commenced 
the  practice  of  his  profession  in  Boston,  where  his 
talents  were  immediately  recognized,  and  his  services 
soon  held  in  high  esteem.  Among  the  literary  men 
of  the  "Hub"  who  hailed  the  advent  of  the  young 
Irish  poet  may  be  mentioned  such  men  as  ex-Gov. 
Long,  John  C.  Abbott,  Wendell  Phillips  and  Dr. 
Oliver  Wendel  Holmes;  and  all  these  remained  his 
firm  friends  and  ardent  admirers  to  the  end. 

His  career  in  Boston  was  fraught  with  success. 
From  the  exactions  of  an  extremely  busy  profes- 
sional life  he  snatched  time  enough  to  write  a  great 
number  of  books,  which  became  popular  even  in  his 
own  day.  During  "  office  hours  "  his  ante-room  was 
always  crowded  with  sufferers,  seeking  advice  and 
medical  treatment.  Sick  calls  came  to  him  not  only 
from  every  quarter  of  the  great  city,  but  also  from 
the  surrounding  towns  that  are  now  incorporated 
with  and  in  the  city  of  Boston.  He  spoke  kindly  to 
everybody  who  approached  him,  and  never  sent  one 


250  IBISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

away,  in  a  hurry.  With  the  intelligent  and  educated 
he  conversed  freely  and  leisurely,  always  choosing 
some  subject  with  which  he  knew  his  patient  was 
familiar.  Irish  history  was  his  delight.  Every  phase 
of  Erin's  long  and  eventful  struggle  seemed  familiar 
to  him  as  the  simple  rudiments  of  the  healing  art. 
Every  stream,  ruin  and  historic  plain  from  Bantry 
Bay  to  Lough  Foyle,  and  from  Kingston  to  Galway, 
he  knew,  and  loved  with  an  undying  love.  How  he 
so  familiarized  himself  with  the  topography  of  his 
native  land — and  that,  too,  during  the  busy  days  of 
student  life — has  always  seemed  little  less  than  a 
mystery  to  the  writer,  who  had  the  honor  of  his 
acquaintance.  This  fact  is  amply  illustrated  by  his 
"  Ballads  of  Irish  Chivalry,"  which  not  only  com- 
memorate great  events  in  the  struggles  of  the  Gael, 
but  also  vividly  and  faithfully  describe  the  scene  of 
every  battle. 

It   was   on   Erin's  elder  days,  however,  that  the 
poet-physician  gloried  to  dwell.     The  days 

When  her  Kings,  with  standard  of  green  unfuiTd, 
Led  the  Red  Branch  Knights  to  danger, 

Ere  the  emerald  gem  of  the  Western  world 
Was  set  in  the  crown  of  a  stranger, 

seemed  to  have  for  Dr.  Joyce  a  peculiar  and  fascinat- 
ing charm.  This  period  of  Irish  history  it  was  that 
inspired  "  Deirdre,"  his  longest,  best  and  most  endur- 
ing poem.  Yet  Erin  was  dear  to  him  in  her  sorrow, 


ROBERT   DWYER  JOYCE.  251 

her  sufferings  and  tears.  He  himself  was  a  man  of 
sorrow  and  much  grief.  In  his  latter  days  he  car- 
ried about  with  him  a  bleeding  heart,  which  thereby 
was  rendered  all  the  more  sensitive  to  the  pains  and 
woes  of  others.  Silently  he  suffered  the  throes  of 
mental  agony  that  shook  his  well-knit  frame;  yet 
betimes  would  his  grief  find  expression  in  lines  like 
these: 

No  kindly  counsel  of  a  friend 

With  soothing  balm  the  hurt  can  mend; 

I  walk  alone  in  grief,  and  make 

My  bitter  moan  for  her  dear  sake, 

For  loss  of  love  is  man's  worst  woe, 

And  I  am  suffering,  and  I  know. 

***** 

Earth,  air  and  sun,  and  moon  and  star, 
Oi  man's  strange  soul  but  mirrors  are, 
Bright  when  the  soul  is  bright,  and  dark 
As  now,  without  one  saving  spar": , 
While  the  black  tides  of  sorrow  flow; 
And  I  am  suffering,  and  I  know. 

To  my  sad  eyes  that  sorrow  dims 
The  greenest  grass  the  swallow  skims, 
The  flowers  that  once  were  fair  to  me, 
The  meadow  and  the  blooming  tree 
Dark  as  funeral  garments  grow; 
And  I  am  suffering,  and  I  know. 

This  pathetic  little  song,  found  in  "  The  Despair 
of  Ouhuliin,"  is  nothing  but  an  outward  expression 


252  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

of  the  grief  that  drove  the  strong,  sweet  singer  to  an 
untimely  grave. 

In  the  spring  of  1883  he  sickened,  and  died  in  the 
Fall  of  the  same  year.  Followed  by  the  esteem  of 
her  most  distinguished  citizens,  and  bearing  with 
him  the  deep  affection  of  the  poor  whom  he  had 
served,  Dr.  Joyce  left  Boston  for  Ireland  early  in 
September,  1883.  The  close  of  the  next  month  wit- 
nessed his  burial  in  the  cemetery  of  Glasnevin. 

About  one  month  before  his  departure  for  Ireland 
the  writer,  in  company  with  a  mutual  friend,  visited 
Dr.  Joyce  in  his  rooms,  on  Chambers  street,  in 
Boston,  and  enjoyed  his  conversation  for  a  space  of 
two  hours.  Though  but  the  shadow  of  his  former 
self,  he  yet  seemed  vigorous,  and  talked  eloquently 
nearly  all  the  time.  After  some  remarks  relating  to 
his  forthcoming  trip  to  Ireland,  he  changed  the  con- 
versation over  to  Irish  history  and  literature.  His 
ruling  passion  was  still  strong. 

The  gentleman  who  accompanied  the  writer  said: 
•"  Come  what  may,  Doctor,  you  have  left  your  im- 
press on  the  literature  of  our  native  land,  and  estab- 
lished a  lasting  fame." 

"  Fame,  I  suppose,"  the  writer  remarked,  "  affords 
very  poor  consolation  to  a  man  when  about  to  close 
his  eyes  to  earthly  things." 

"  On  that  point,"  rejoined  the  poet,  "  I  do  not 
agree  with  you.  I  think  it  affords  one  great  consola- 


EOBEET   DWYEB  JOYCE.  253 

tion.  It  is  a  great  deal  to  leave  behind  a  name  that 
is  likely  to  be  cherished  in  the  hearts  of  a  grateful 
people. 

"  I  do  not,  however/'  he  continued,  "  draw  all  my 
consolation  from  that  source.  The  priest  was  with 
me  yesterday,  and  I  am  prepared  for  any  kind  of  a 
journey  now.  If  the  worst  comes,  I  am  not  without 
hope  of  a  happy  resurrection." 

It  is  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  since,  under 
the  signature  of  "Feardana,"  Dr.  Joyce's  first  verses 
appeared  in  The  Harp,  a  magazine  then  published 
in  the  City  of  Cork,  under  the  editorial  management 
of  M.  J.  McCann  the  gifted  author  of  "O'Donnell 
Aboo."  The  force  and  spirit  of  his  verses  attracted 
general  attention  among  the  Nationalists,  and  his 
pen  soon  found  employment  in  the  columns  of  the 
Hibernian  Magazine  also.  "  The  Blacksmith  of  Lime- 
rick," which  appeared  at  this  period,  gained  for 
him  a  wTide  popularity,  and  established  his  reputation 
as  a  poet  on  a  firm  and  enduring  basis.  He  became 
a  regular  contributor  to  the  Dublin  Nation;  and  the 
London  Universal  News,  edited  at  that  time  by  the 
late  John  Francis  O'Donnell,  eagerly  sought  the 
productions  of  his  pen,  for  which  he  was  well  paid 
in  all  instances.  It  was  not  in  the  domain  of  poetry 
alone  that  " Feardana"  (the  song-maker)  excelled; 
he  also  wrote  racy  sketches  for  the  press.  A  very 
interesting  novel  "The  Squire  of  Castleton,"  which 


254  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

appeared  as  a  serial  in  the  Dublin  Irishman,  received 
high  praise  from  the  critics,  and  the  opinion  prevails 
that,  had  he  devoted  his  time  and  talents  to  fiction 
instead  of  medicine,  he  would  have  outrivaled 
Samuel  Lover  as  a  novelist.  His  "Irish  Fireside 
Tales"  and  "Legends  of  the  Wars  in  Ireland, "  col- 
lected and  compiled  during  the  busiest  period  of  his 
professional  career,  are  replete  with  genuine  Irish 
wit  and  humor.  These  works  added  to  the  fast- 
increasing  popularity  of  the  author,  and  from  them 
the  publisher  reaped  a  rich  harvest. 

The  writer  of  this  sketch  can  never  forget  the  im- 
pression made  upon  his  mind  by  the  perusal  of  our 
author's  "  Ballads  of  Irish  Chivalry,  Songs  and 
Poems,"  when  they  first  appeared  in  1872,  from  the 
press  of  Patrick  Donahoe,  Boston.  This  work,  which 
was  well  received  at  home  and  abroad,  contained  all 
the  poems  written  by  Dr.  Joyce  up  to  that  date. 

The  appearance  of  this  volume  it  was  that  evoked 
the  following  beautiful  tribute  from  the  brilliant 
Bard  of  Thomond,  Michael  O'Hogan: 

TO  ROBERT  D.   JOYCE, 

ON  THE   PUBLICATION   OF   HIS  POEMS. 

BOLD  master  of  the  Irish  lyre!  sweet  mouth  of  song,  all  hail! 
Feardana  of  the  lofty  verse !  Ard  Filea  of  the  Gael ! 
As  joys  the  thirsty  traveler  when  a  pure  spring  trickles  near, 
So  burst  thy  living  numbers  on  my  soul's  enraptured  ear! 


ROBERT   DWYER  JOYCE.  255 

The  silent,  cloud-robed  grandeur  of  the  mountain  solitude, 
The  boweiy  vale ,  the  flowery  plain ,  the  emerald- vested  wood ; 
The  gaping  breach,  the  'league red  town,  the  reckless  battle- 
throng — 
All  glow  before  my  spirit,  in  the  pictures  of  thy  song! 

The  mystic  Spirit- world ,  with  its  fairy  splendor  gay, 
Thy  daring  genius  has  unlocked  with  Poesy's  magic  key; 
The  sun-ray'd  jewels  of  Romance,  with  all  their  pristine  light, 
Burst,  flashing  from  thy  wizard  pen,  upon  our  charmed  sight! 

Sweet  Ollav  of  the  golden  lay!  oh,  would  my  simple  praise 
Add  one  bright  floweret  to  the  crown  of  thy  immortal  bays , 
And  place  thy  brilliant  page — a  gem — in  every  Irish  hand — 
Feardana  of  romantic  song  were  honored  in  our  land ! 

Then  pour  upon  thy  country's  ear  thy  harp-notes  wild  and 

strong, 

And  melt  into  our  burning  hearts  the  jewels  of  thy  song; 
And  let  thy  eagle  Muse  tower  up  to  heaven,  on  flashing  wing, 
Till  Erin,  with  admiring  soul,  delights  to  hear  thee  sing! 

Here,  by  old  Shannon's  noble  flood,  I  drink  thy  tuneful  lore, 
And,  as  my  spirit  quaffs  thy  strain,  I  thirst  and  long  for  more! 
Back  on  the  spring-tide  of  thy  verse  I  float  to  olden  times, 
And  bathe  my  fancy  in  the  rays  of  radiant  Fairy  climes! 

"Deirdre"  and  "Blanid"  are,  however,  the  works 
on  which  the  fame  of  Dr.  Joyce  securely  rests.  They 
are  the  crowning  glory  of  his  labors.  The  former 
has  been  pronounced  by  no  less  a  critic  than  James 
Russell  Lowell  "the  greatest  epic  of  the  nineteenth 
century." 


256  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

To  the  writing  of  this,  Dr.  Joyce  brought  all  the 
information  attainable  on  the  subject.  He  had  read 
and  digested  everything  that  could  be  found  pertain- 
ing to  the  story  of  "Deirdre"  and  the  sons  of  Usna, 
before  a  single  line  of  this  gorgeous  poem  was  writ- 
ten. For  fifteen  years,  it  is  said,  he  had  been 
endeavoring  to  "  strike  the  proper  strain."  At  last, 
he  succeeded,  and  in  this  wise: 

About  four  o'clock,  one  fine  St.  Patrick's  morning, 
he  was  returning  by  way  of  St.  Patrick's  Bridge  from 
a  sick  call  in  South  Boston.  As  usual,  holding  his 
inseparable  blackthorn  in  the  middle,  he  strode 
proudly  along  whistling  "  St.  Patrick's  Day  in  the 
Morning."  Immediately  he  struck  the  long-looked- 
for  keynote  to  his  poem,  and  before  reaching  his 
office  that  morning,  u  The  Feast  at  the  House  of 
Feilimid  "  was  well  under  way.  He  went  along  the 
rest  of  the  journey  in  silence  with  bowed  head  and 
vision  introverted,  composing: 

It  happened  in  Eman  at  the  joyous  time 
When  wood-flowers  bloomed  and  roses  in  their  prime 
Laughed  round  the  garden,  and  the  new-fledged  bird 
'Mid  the  thick  leaves  his  downy  winglets  stirred. 

These  are  the  initial  couplets  of  Deirdre,  in  which 
adventure,  love  and  war  are  described  with  a  force 
and  felicity  of  language  unequalled  in  any  epic  we 
have  ever  read.  It  contains  many  pictures  of  nature 


ROBERT   DWYER  JOYCE.  257 

exquisitely  drawn.     Email's  palace  garden  is  painted 
thus: 

Near  Eman's  hall,  beyond  the  outward  fosse, 
There  was  a  slope  all  gay  with  golden  moss, 
Green  grass  and  lady  ferns  and  daisies  white, 
And  fairy-caps,  the  wandering  bee's  delight, 
And  the  wild  thyme  that  scents  the  upland  breeze, 
And  clumps  of  hawthorn  and  fair  ashen  trees. 
And  at  its  foot  there  spread  a  little  plain 
That  never  seemed  to  thirst  for  dew  or  rain; 
For  round  about  it  waved  a  perfumed  wood, 
And  through  its  midst  there  ran  a  crystal  flood 
With  many  a  murmuring  song  and  eltin  shout, 
In  whose  clear  pools  the  crimson-spotted  trout 
Would  turn  his  tawny  side  to  sun  and  sky, 
Or  sparkling  upward  catch  the  summer  fly; 
On  whose  green  banks  the  iris  in  its  pride, 
Flaming  in  blue  and  gold,  grew  side  by  side 
With  meadow-sweet  and  snow-white  ladies-gowns, 
And  daffodils  that  shook  their  yellow  crowns 
In  wanton  dalliance  with  each  breeze  that  blew; 
And  there  the  birds  sang  songs  for  ever  new 
To  those  that  loved  them  as  friend  loveth  friend; 
And  there  the  cuckoo  first  his  way  would  wend 
From  far-off  climes  and  kingdoms  year  by  year, 
And  rest  himself  and  shout  his  message  clear 
Round  the  glad  woods,  that  winter  was  no  more, 
And  summer's  reign  begins  from  shore  to  shore. 


18 


258  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

The  poet's  genius  as  a  portrait  painter  is  strikingly 
illustrated  in  this  passage: 

Then  rose  an  aged  lord,  with  haughty  air 
And  shaggy  brows  and  grizzled  beard  and  hair, 
Whose  fierce  eye  o'er  the  margin  of  his  shield 
Had  gazed  from  war's  first  ridge  on  many  a  field, 
Unblinking  at  the  foe  that  on  him  glared , 
And  might  be  ten  to  one,  for  all  he  cared. 

And  who  that  has  ever  strolled  through  the  lovely 
vales  of  Erin  can  fail  to  recall  and  recognize  this 
autumn  scene,  depicted  by  the  poet's  pen: 

Upon  the  spreading  thorn 
The  fieldfares  bickered  at  the  ruddy  haw, 
The  last  fruit  of  the  year;  the  thievish  daw 
Fought  on  the  palace  gable  with  his  wife, 
And  the  fierce  magpie,  born  to  ceaseless  strife, 
Swung  on  the  larch  and  told  his  household  woes, 
Or  plumed  his  tail  and  threatened  all  his  foes 
With  vicious  screams  and  angry  rhapsodies; 
And  loud  the  finches  chirruped  in  the  trees. 

And  then,  as  so  frequently  happens  there  in  the 
late  autumn: 
Spiralling  adown  the  sky,  the  first  great  feathery  snowfiakes 

made  their  way, 
Till  all  the  garden  changed  from  brown  to  gray. 

It  is  in  battle  bouts,  however,  that  the  author's 
skill  manifests  itself  to  the  best  advantage : 

Strong  knee  to  knee,  and  bloody  sword  to  sword 
And  the  deep  vale  the  echoing  tenors  roar'd. 


ROBERT   DWYER  JOYCE.  259 

The  taking  of  the  Fomorian  stronghold  hy  the 
three  brothers,  Naisi,  Ainli  and  Ardan  is  referred  to 
in  the  following  lines: 

Mercy  fled, 

The  field  despairing;  Rage,  or  coward  Dread 
Possessed  all  hearts;  while  raising  her  wild  shriek 
Slaughter  with  crimson  wings  and  raven  beak, 
Flapped  the  black  sky  above  exultingly, 
Till,  as  the  sinking  moon  from  o'er  the  sea 
Cast  her  last  beams  ere  morn  across  the  isle* 
Weirdly  they  glimmered  on  the  ghastly  pile 
Of  pirate  dead  that  cumbered  all  the  strand, 
Whereby  strong  Naisi  stood,  in  his  left  hand 
Holding  aloft  the  grim  and  gory  head 

Of  the  Fomorian  King! 

There  is  nothing  in  the  ^Eneid  that  surpasses  this 
in  dramatic  effect.  That  the  reading  public  imme- 
diately recognized  the  high  merit  of  this  work  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  ten  thousand  copies  of  it 
were  sold  in  one  week  after  publication. 

"Blanid"  is  an  epic  which  equally  abounds  in 
bold  metaphor  and  beautiful  simile. 

Unlike  the  author  of  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  Joyce 

"  Had  no  heart  nor  hand, 

For  foreign  theme  in  foreign  land. " 

He  himself  was  Irish  to  the  core,  and  all  his  themes 
were  Irish  too.  This  truth  he  beautifully  sets  forth 
in  his  proem  to  "Blanid."  So  far  have  we  outrun 


260  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

the  limits  of  our  space  that  room  can  be  given  to 
only  one  stanza  of  this  preface: 

Though  many  a  field  I've  searched  of  foreign  lore, 

And  found  great  themes  for  song,  yet  ne'er  would  1 
Seek  Greece,  or  Araby,  or  Persia's  shore 

For  heroes  and  the  deeds  of  days  gone  by; 

To  my  own  native  land  my  heart  would  fly, 
Howe'er  my  fancy  wandered,  and  I  gave 

My  thoughts  to  her  and  to  the  heroes  high 
She  nursed  in  ages  gone  and  strove  to  save 
Some  memory  of  their  deeds  from  dark  oblivion's  wave ! 

"  Deirdre  "  and  "  Blanid  "  were  published  by  Rob- 
erts Brothers,  Boston,  in  the  "  No  Name  "  series;  and, 
long  before  the  authorship  was  known,  their  merit 
was  recognized. 


THE  BLACKSMITH  OF  LIMERICK. 

HE  grasped  the  ponderous  hammer,  he  could  not  stand  it  more, 
To  hear  the  bomb-shells  bursting,  and  thundering  battle's  roar; 
He  said,  "  The  breach  they're  mounting,  the  Dutchman's  mur- 
dering crew — 
I'll  try  my  hammer  on  their  heads,  and  see  what  that  can  do! 

"  Now,  swarthy  Ned  and  Moran,  make  up  that  iron  well; 
Tis  Sarsfield's  horse  that  wants  the  shoes,  so  mind  not  shot  or 

shell;"— 
"Ah  sure,"  cried  both,  "  the  horse  can  wait,  for  Sarsfield's  on 

the  wall, 
And  where  you  go  we'll  follow,  with  you  to  stand  or  fall!" 


ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE.  261 

The  blacksmith  raised  his  hammer,  and  rushed  into  the  street, 
His  'prentice  boys  behind  him,  the  ruthless  foe  to  meet; — 
High  on  the  breach  of  Limerick  with   dauntless  hearts   they 

stood, 
Where  bomb-shells  burst,  and  shot  fell  thick,  and  redly  ran  the 

blood. 

"Now  look  you,  brown-haired  Moran;  and  mark  you,  swarthy 

Ned, 

This  day  we'll  prove  the  thickness  of  many  a  Dutchman's  head! 
Hurrah!  upon  their  bloody  path,  they're  mounting  gallantly; 
And  now  the  first  that  tops  the  breach,  leave  him  to  this  and  me." 

The  first  that  gained  the  rampart,  he  was  a  captain  brave, — 
A  captain  of  the  grenadiers,  with  blood-stained  dirk  and  glaive; 
He  pointed  and  he  parried,  but  it  was  all  in  vain! 
For  fast  through  skull  and  helmet  the  hammer  found  his  brain! 

The  next  that  topped  the  rampart,  he  was  a  Colonel  bold; 
Bright,  through   the   dust  of  battle,  his   helmet   flashed  with 

gold— 

"  Gold  is  no  match  for  iron/'  the  doughty  blacksmith  said, 
And  with  that  ponderous  hammer  he  cracked  his  foeman's  head. 

"  Hurrah  for  gallant  Limerick!  "  black  Ned  and  Moran  cried, 
As  on  the  Dutchman's  leaden  heads  their  hammers  well  they 

plied ; 

A  bomb-shell  burst  between  them — one  fell  without  a  groan, 
One  leaped  into  the  lurid  air,  and  down  the  breach  was  thrown. 

Brave  smith!  brave  smith!  cried  Sarsfield,  beware  the  treacher- 
ous mine ! 

Brave  smith!  brave  smith!  fall  backward,  or  surely  death  is 
thine!" 


262  IKISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

The  smith  sprang  up  the  rampart  and  leaped  the  blood-stained 

wall, 
As  high  into  the  shuddering  air  went  foeman,  breach  and  all ! 

Up,  like  a  red  volcano,  they  thundered  wild  and  high, — 
Spear,  gun,  and  shattered  standard,  and  foeman  through  the 

sky; 
And  dark  and  bloody- was  the  shower  that  round  the  blacksmith 

fell;- 
He  thought  upon  his  'prentice  boys, — they  were  avenged  well. 

On  foeman  and  defenders  a  silence  gathered  down; 

'T  was  broken  by  a  triumph  shout  that  shook  the  ancient  town, 

As  out  its  heroes  sallied,  and  bravely  charged  and  slew, 

And  taught  King  William  and  his  men  what  Irish  hearts  could  do. 

Down  rushed  the  swarthy  blacksmith  unto  the  river's  side, 
He  hammered  on  the  foe's  pontoon,  to  sink  it  in  the  tide; 
The  timber,  it  was  tough  and  strong,  it  took  no  crack  or  strain; 
' '  Mavrone  /  't  won't  break !"  the  blacksmith  roared ;  ' '  I'll  try 
their  heads  again !" 

He  rushed  upon  the  flying  ranks;  his  hammer  ne'er  was  slack, 
For  in  thro'  blood  and  bone  it  crashed,  thro'  helmet  and  thro' 

jack; 

He's  ta'en  a  Holland  captain  beside  the  red  pontoon, 
And  "  Wait  you  here,"  he  boldly  cries;  "  I'll  send  you  back  full 

soon!" 

Dost  see  this  gory  hammer  ?     It  cracked  some  skulls  to-day, 
And  yours  't  will  crack,  if  you  don't  stand  and  list  to  what  I 

say;— 

Here!  take  it  to  your  cursed  King,  and  tell  him,  softly,  too, 
'T  would  be  acquainted  with  his  skull  if  he  were  here,  not  you!" 


ROBERT   DWYER   JOYCE.  26& 

The  blacksmith  sought  his  smithy  and  blew  his  bellows  strong; 

He  shod  the  steed  of  Sarsfield,  but  o'er  it  sang  no  song; 

*  *  Ochone  /  my  boys  are  dead !"  he  cried ;  ' '  their  loss  I'll  long 

deplore, 
But  comfort's  in  my  heart,  their  graves  are  red  with  foreign 

gore. " 

SWEET  GLENGAKJFF'S  WATER. 

WHERE  wildfowl  swim  upon  the  lake 

At  morning's  early  shining, 
I'm  sure,  I'm  sure  my  heart  will  break 

With  sadness  and  repining. 

As  I  went  out  one  morning  sweet, 

I  met  a  farmer's  daughter, 
With  gown  of  blue,  and  milk-white  feet, 

By  sweet  Glengariff's  water. 

Her  jet-black  locks,  with  wavy  shine, 

Fell  sweetly  on  her  shoulder, 
And,  ah!  they  make  my  heart  repine 

Till  I  again  behold  her. 

She  smiled  and  passed  me  strangely  by, 

Though  fondly  I  besought  her, 
And  long  I'll  rue  her  laughing  eye 

By  sweet  Glengariff's  water. 

Where  wild  fowl  swim  upon  the  lake 

At  early  morning  splendor, 
Each  day  my  lonely  path  I'll  take, 

With  thoughts  full  sad  and  tender. 


IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

I'll  meet  my  love,  and,  sure,  she'll  stay 
To  hear  the  tale  I've  brought  her — 

To  marry  me  this  merry  May, 
By  sweet  GlengarifF's  water. 

THE  GREEN  AND  THE  GOLD. 

IN  the  soft,  blooming  vales  of  our  country, 

Two  colors  shine  brightest  of  all, 
O'er  mountain  and  moorland  and  meadow, 

On  cottage  and  old  castle  wall; 
They  shine  in  the  gay  summer  garden, 

And  glint  in  the  depths  of  the  wold, 
And  they  gleam  on  the  banner  of  Ireland, 

Our  colors,  the  Green  and  the  Gold! 
Then  hurrah  for  the  Green  and  the  Gold ! 

By  the  fresh  winds  of  Freedom  outrolled, 
As  they  shine  on  the  brave  Irish  banner, 

Our  colors,  the  Green  and  the  Gold! 

In  the  days  of  Fomorian  and  Fenian, 

These  colors  flashed  bright  in  the  ray; 
And  their  gleam  kept  the  fierce  Roman  Eagles 

In  Rome — conquered  Britain  at  bay; 
When  Conn  fought  his  hundred  red  battles 

And  the  lightning  struck  Dathi  of  old, 
As  he  bore  through  Helvetia's  wild  gorges 

Our  colors,  the  Green  and  the  Gold. 
Then  hurrah  for  the  Green  and  the  Gold ! 

May  they  flourish  for  ages  untold ! 
May  they  blaze  in  the  vanguard  of  freedom, 

Our  colors,  the  Green  and  the  Gold! 


ROBERT   DWYEB   JOYCE.  265 

In  these  dark  days  of  doom  and  disaster, 

Is  it  dead,  the  old  love  for  our  land  ? 
Are  our  bosoms  less  brave  than  our  fathers  ? 

Comes  the  sword-hilt  less  deft  to  our  hand  ? 
No!  we've  proved  us  the  wide  world  over, 

Wherever  war's  surges  have  rolled, 
And  we'll  raise  once  again  in  Old  Ireland 

Our  colors,  the  Green  and  the  Gold! 
Then  hurrah  for  the  Green  and  the  Gold ! 

And  hurrah  for  the  valiant  and  bold, 
Who  will  raise  them  supreme  in  Old  Ireland, 

Our  colors,  the  Green  and  the  Gold' 

THE  RAPPAREE'S   HORSE   AND   SWORD. 

MY  name  is  MacSheehy,  from  Feal's  swelling  flood, 
A  rapparee  rover  by  mountain  and  wood ; 
I've  two  trusty  comrades  to  serve  me  at  need — 
This  sword  at  my  side  and  my  gallant  gray  steed. 

Now  where  did  I  get  them, — my  gallant  gray  steed 
And  this  sword,  keen  and  trusty,  to  serve  me  at  need? 
This  sword  was  my  father's — in  battle  he  died — 
And  I  reared  bold  Isgur  by  Feal's  woody  side. 

I  ve  said  it,  and  say  it,  and  care  not  who  hear, 
Myself  and  gray  Isgur  have  never  known  fear; 
There's  a  dint  on  my  helmet,  a  hole  through  his  ear; 
T  was  the  same  bullet  made  them,  at  Lim'rick  last  year! 

And  the  soldier  who  fired  it  was  still  ramming  down, 
When  this  long  sword  came  right  with  a  slash  on  his  crown; 
Dhar  Dhia!  but  he'll  ne'er  fire  a  musket  again, 
For  his  skull  lies  in  two  at  the  side  of  the  glen! 


266  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

When  they  caught  us  one  day  at  the  castle  of  Brugh, 
Of  our  black-hearted  foemen,  the  deadliest  crew, 
Like  a  bolt  from  the  thunder,  gray  Isgur  went  through, 
And  my  sword!  long  they'll  weep  at  the  sore  taste  of  you! 

Together  we  sleep  'neath  the  wild  crag  or  tree, — 
My  soul !  but  there  ne'er  were  such  comrades  as  we ! 
I,  Brian  the  Rover,  my  two  friends  at  need, 
This  sword  at  my  side  and  my  gallant  gray  steed ! 

THE  CAILIN  RUE. 

WHEN  first  I  sought  her,  by  Cashin's  water 

Fond  love  I  brought  her,  fond  love  I  told; 
At  day's  declining  I  found  her  twining 

Her  bright  locks  shining  like  red,  red  gold. 
She  raised  her  eyes  then  in  sweet  surprise  then — 

Ah !  how  unwise  then  such  eyes  to  view ! 
For  free  they  found  me,  but  fast  they  bound  me, 

Love's  chain  around  me  for  my  Cailin  Rue. 

Fair  flowers  were  blooming,  the  meads  illuming, 

All  fast  assuming  rich  summer's  pride, 
And  we  were  roving,  truth's  rapture  proving, 

Ah!  fondly  loving,  by  Cashin's  side; 
Oh  love  may  wander,  but  ne'er  could  sunder 

Our  hearts,  that  fonder  each  moment  grew, 
Till  friends  delighted  such  love  requited, 

And  my  hand  was  plighted  to  my  Cailin  Rue. 

Ere  May's  bright  weather  o'er  hill  and  heather, 
Sweet  tuned  together  rang  our  bridal  bells; 

But  at  May's  dying,  on  fate  relying, 
Fate  left  us  sighing  by  Cashin's  dells; 


ROBERT   DWYER   JOYCE.  267 

Oh!  sadly  perished  the  bliss  we  cherished! 

But  far  lands  flourished  o'er  the  ocean  blue, 
So  as  June  came  burning,  I  left  Erin  mourning, 

No  more  returning  with  my  Cailin  Rue. 

Our  ship  went  sailing  with  course  nnf ailing, 

But  black  clouds,  trailing,  lowered  o'er  the  main, 
And  its  wild  dirge  singing,  came  the  storm  out  springing, 

That  good  ship  flinging  back,  back  again! 
A  sharp  rock  under  tore  her  planks  asunder, 

While  the  sea  in  thunder  swallowed  wreck  ana  crew; 
One  dark  wave  bore  me  where  the  coast  towered  o'er  me, 

But  dead  before  me  lay  my  Cailin  Rue ! 


THE  SACK  OF  DUNBUI. 

A.  D.  1602. 

THEY  who  fell  in  manhood's  pride, 
They  who  nobly  righting  died, 

Fade  their  mem'iies  never,  never; 
Theirs  shall  be  the  deathless  name 

Shining  brighter,  grander  ever, 

Up  the  diamond  crags  of  Fame ! 
Time  these  glorious  names  shall  lift 
Up  from  sunbright  clift  to  clift — 

Upward !  to  eternity ! 

The  godlike  men  o£  brave  Dunbui! 


268  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Glorious  men  and  godlike  men, 
Well  they  stemmed  the  Saxon  then, 

When  he  came,  with  all  his  powers, 
Over  river,  plain  and  sea, 

'Gainst  the  tall  and  bristling  towers 
Of  the  Spartan-manned  Dunbui — 
Traitor  Gael  and  Saxon  churl, 
Burning  in  their  wrath  to  hurl 

Ruin  on  the  bold  and  free 

Warrior  men  of  brave  Dunbui ! 

Thomond  with  his  traitors  came, 
Carew  breathing  blood  and  flame; 

First  he  sent  his  message  in 

To  the  Southern  gunsmen  three, 

Message  black  as  hell  and  sin, 
Sin  and  Satan  e'er  could  be; 
Would  they,  trusting  f  re  res,  betray, 
Would  they  this,  for  golden  pay  ? 

Demon,  no!  foul  treachery 

Never  dwelt  in  strong  Dunbui ; 

Onward,  then,  that  sunny  June, 
On  they  came  in  the  fiery  noon, 

On  where  frowned  the  stubborn  keep 
O'er  the  rock-subduing  flood; 

First  they  took  Beare's  island,  steep, 

And  drenched  its  crags  in  helpless  blood. 
Nought  could  save^— child's,  woman's  tears — 
Curse  upon  their  cruel  spears! 

Oh,  that  sight  was  hell  to  see 

By  thy  bristling  walls ,  Dunbui ! 


ROBERT   DWYER  JOYCE.  269 

Nearer  yet,  they  crowd  and  come, 

With  taunting  and  yelling,  and  thundering  drum, 

With  taunting  and  yelling  the  hold  they  environ, 
And  swear  that  its  towers  and  defenders  must  fall, 

While  the  cannon  are  set,  and  their  death-hail  of  iron 

Crash  wildly  on  bastion  and  turret  and  wall; 
And  the  ramparts  are  torn  from  their  base  to  their  brow — 
Ho !  will  they  not  yield  to  the  murderers  now  ? 

No!  its  huge  towers  shall  float  over  Cleena's  bright  sea 

Ere  the  Gael  prove  a  craven  in  lonely  Dunbui ! 

Like  the  fierce  god  of  battle ,  MacGeoghegan  goes 
From  rampart  to  wall,  in  the  face  of  his  foes; 

Now  his  voice  rises  high  o'er  the  cannon's  fierce  din, 

Whilst  the  taunt  of  the  Saxon  is  loud  as  before, 
But  a  yell  thunders  up  from  his  warriors  within, 

And  they  dash  through  the  gateway,  down,  down  to  the 

shore. 

With  their  chief  rushing  on,  like  a  storm  in  its  wrath, 
They  sweep  the  cowed  Saxon  to  death  in  their  path ; 
Ah !  dearly  he'll  purchase  the  fall  of  the  free , 
Of  the  lion-souled  warriors  of  lonely  Dunbui ! 

Leaving  terror  behind  them,  and  death  in  their  train, 
Now  they  stand  on  their  walls  'mid  the  dying  and  slain, 
And  the  night  is  around  them — the  battle  is  still — 

That  lone  summer  midnight,  ah!  short  is  its  reign, 
For  the  morn  springe th  upward,  and  valley  and  hill 
Fling  back  the  fierce  echoes  of  conflict  again. 


270  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

And  see  how  the  foe  rushes  up  to  the  breach, 
Towards  the  green  waving  banner  he  yet  may  not  reach, 
For  look  how  the  Gael  flings  him  back  to  the  sea , 
From  the  blood-reeking  ramparts  of  lonely  Dunbui ! 

Night  cometh  again,  and  the  white  stars  look  down 
From  the  hold  to  the  beach,  where  the  batteries  frown; 

Night  cometh  again,  but  affrighted  she  flies, 

Like  a  black  Indian  queen  from  the  fierce  panther's  roar, 

And  morning  leaps  up  in  the  wide-spreading  skies, 
To  his  welcome  of  thunder  and  flame  evermore ; 
For  the  guns  of  the  Saxon  crash  fearfully  there, 
Till  the  walls  and  the  towers  and  the  ramparts  are  bare, 

And  the  foe  make  their  last  mighty  swoop  on  the  free 

The  brave-hearted  warriors  of  lonely  Dunbui ! 

Within  the  red  breach  see  MacGeoghegan  stand, 
With  the  blood  of  the  foe  on  his  arm  and  his  brand; 
And  he  turns  to  his  warriors,  and  "  Fight  we,"  says  he, 

"  For  country,  for  freedom,  religion,  and  all; 
Better  sink  into  death,  and  for  ever  be  free, 

Than  yield  to  the  false  Saxon's  mercy  and  thrall !" 
And  they  answer,  with  brandish  of  sparth  and  of  glaive: 
"  Let  them  come;  we  will  give  them  a  welcome  and  grave; 
Let  them  come — from  their  swords  could  we  flinch,  could  we 

flee, 
When  we  fight  for  our  countiy,  our  God,  and  Dunbui! " 


ROBERT   DWYEK   JOYCE.  271 

They  came,  and  the  Gael  met  their  merciless  shock — 
Flung  them  backward  like  spray  from  the  lone  Skellig  rock; 

But  they  rally,  as  wolves  springing  up  to  the  death 
Of  their  brother  of  famine ,  the  bear  of  the  snow — 

He  hurls  them  adown  to  the  ice-fields  beneath, 

Rushing  back  to  his  dark  norland  cave  from  the  foe; — 
So  up  to  the  breaches  they  savagely  bound, 
Thousands  still  thronging  beneath  and  around, 

Till  the  firm  Gael  is  driven — till  the  brave  Gael  must  flee 

In,  into  the  chambers  of  lonely  Dunbui! 

In  chamber,  in  cellar,  on  stairway  and  tower, 
Evermore  they  resisted  the  false  Saxon's  power; 

Through  the  noon,  through  the  eve,  and  the  darkness  of  night 
The  clangor  of  battle  rolls  fearfully  there, 

Till  the  morning  leaps  upward  in  glory  and  light, 

Then,  where  are  the  true-hearted  warriors  of  Beare? 
They  have  found  them  a  refuge  from  torment  and  chain; 
They  have  died  with  their  chief,  save  the  few  who  remain, 

And  that  few — oh,  fair  Heaven!  on  the  high  gallows  tree, 

They  swing  by  the  ruins  of  lonely  Dunbui ! 

Long,  in  the  hearts  of  the  brave  and  the  free 
Live  the  warriors  who  died  in  the  lonely  Dunbni — 

Down  Time's  silent  river  their  fair  names  shall  go, 
A  light  to  our  race  towards  the  long-coming  day; 

Till  the  billows  of  time  shall  be  checked  in  their  flow 

Can  we  find  names  so  sweet  for  remembrance  as  they  ? 
And  we  will  hold  their  memories  for  ever  and  aye , 
A  halo,  a  glory  that  ne'er  shall  decay; 

We'll  set  them  as  stars  o'er  Eternity's  sea, 

The  bright  names  of  the  warriors  who  fell  at  Dunbui ! 


272  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 


SARSFIELD'S  RIDE;     OR,   THE    AMBUSH   OF  SLIAV 

BLOOM. 

[The  generally-received  historical  account  of  the  exploit  related  in  the 
following  ballad  differs  in  several  points  from  the  traditionary  version.  And 
yet  the  latter  should  not  be  despised,  for  the  peasantry  of  Limerick  and 
Tipperary  have  stories  of  the  incident,  all  agreeing  with  regard  to  the  ride  of 
Galloping  O'Hogan.  The  songs  also  of  the  time  preserve  the  name  of  that 
celebrated  horseman  and  outlaw  in  connection  with  the  affair.  It  maybe  also 
stated  that  in  every  song  and  story  of  the  time,  King  William  is  always  nick- 
named "Dutch  Bill,"  a  cognomen  by  which  he  is  even  to  the  present  day 
remembered  in  many  parts  of  Munster.] 

PAET  THE  FIBST. 

"  COME  up  to  the  hill,  Johnnie  Moran,  and  the  de'il's  in  the 
sight  you  will  see: 

The  men  of  Dutch  Bill  in  the  lowlands  are  marching  o'er  valley 
and  lea; 

Brave  cannon  they  bring  for  their  warfare,  good  powder  and 
bullets  galeor, 

To  batter  the  grey  walls  of  Limerick  adown  by  the  deep  Shan- 
non shore ! " 

They  girded  their  corselets  and  sabers  that  morning  so  glorious 

and  still; 
They  leapt  like  good  men  to  their  saddles,  and  took  the  lone 

path  to  the  hill; 
And  deftly  they  handled  their  bridles  as  they  rode  thro'  each 

green,  fairy  coom, 
Each  woodland,  and  broad  rocky  valley,  till  they  came  to  the 

crest  of  Sliav  Bloom ! 

"  Look  down  to  the  east,  Johnnie  Moran,  where  the  wings  of 

the  morning  are  spread, 
Each  basnet  you  see  in  the  sunlight  it  gleams  on  an  enemy's  head ; 


ROBERT   DWYER  JOYCE.  273 

Look  down  on  their  long  line  of  baggage,  their  huge  guns  of 

iron  and  brass, 
That,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  O'Hogan,  will  ne'er  to  the  William- 

ites  pass ! 

"  Spur,  then,  to  the  green  shores  of  Brosna — see  Ned  of  the 

hills  on  your  way — 
Have  all  the  brave  boys  at  the  muster  by  Brosna  at  close  of  the 

day; 
I'll  ride  off  for  Sarsfield  to  Lim'rick,  and  tell  what  I've  seen 

from  the  hill — 
If  Sarsfield  won't  capture  their  cannon,  by  the  Cross  of  Kildare, 

but  we  will!" 

Away  to  the  north  went  young  Johnnie,  like  an  arbalist  bolt  in 

his  speed, 
Away  to  the  west  brave  O'Hogan  gives  bridle  and  spur  to  his 

steed; 
Through  the  fierce  highland  torrent  he  dashes,  through  copse 

and  down  greenwood  full  fain, 
Till  he  biddeth  farewell  to  the  mountains,  and  sweeps  o'er  the 

flat  lowland  plain ! 

You'd  search  from  the  grey  Rocks  of  Cashel  each  side  to  the 

blue  ocean's  rim, 
Through  green  dale,  and  hamlet,  and  city,  but  you'd  ne'er  find 

a  horseman  like  him ; 
With  his  foot,  as  if  grown  to  the  stirrup,  his  knee,  with  its 

rooted  hold  ta'en, 
With  his  seat  in  the  saddle  so  graceful,  and  his  sure  hand  so 

light  on  the  rein ! 

19 


274  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

As  the  cloud-shadow  skims  o'er  the  meadows,  when  the  fleet- 
winged  summer- winds  blow, 

By  war- wasted  castle  and  village,  and  streamlet  and  crag  doth 
he  go; 

The  foam-flakes  drop  quick  from  his  charger,  yet  never  a  bridle 
draws  he, 

Till  he  baits  in  the  hot,  blazing  noontide  by  the  cool  fairy  well 
of  Lisbui ! 

He  rubbed  down  his  charger  full  fondly,  the  dry  grass  he  heaped 

for  its  food, 
He  ate  of  the  green  cress  and  shamrock,  and  drank  of  the  sweet 

crystal  flood ; 
He's  up  in  his  saddle  and  flying  o'er  wood  track  and  broad 

heath  once  more, 
Till  the  sand  'neath  the  hoofs  of  his  charger  is  crunch'd  by  the 

wide  Shannon's  shore ! 

For  never  a  ford  did  he  linger,  but  swam  his  good  charger 

across — 
It  clomb  the  steep  bank  like  a  wolf-dog-— then  dashed  over 

moorland  and  moss. 
The  shepherds  who  looked  from  the  highland,  they  crossed 

themselves  thrice  as  he  passed, 
And  they  said  'twas  a  sprite  from  Crag  Aeivil  went  by  on  the 

wings  of  the  blast. 

PAET  THE  SECOND. 

Dutch  Bill  sent  a  summons  to  Limerick — a  summons  to  open 

their  gate, 
Their  fortress  and  stores  to  surrender,  else  the  pike  and  the  gun 

were  their  fate. 


ROBERT   DWYER  JOYCE.  275 

Brave  Sarsfield  he  answered  the  summons:     "  Though  all  holy 

Ireland  in  flames 
Blazed  up  to  the  skies  to  consume  us,  we'll  hold  the  good  town 

for  King  James." 

Dutch  Bill,  when  he  listed  the   answer,  he  stamped,  and  he 

vowed,  and  he  swore 
That  he'd  bury  the  town,  ere  he'd  leave  it,  in  grim  fiery  ruin 

and  gore; 
From  black  Ireton's  Fort  with  his  cannon  he  hammered  it  well 

all  the  day, 
And  he  wished  for  his  huge  guns  to  back  him  that  were  yet 

o'er  the  hills  far  away. 

The  soft  curfew  bell  from  Saint  Mary's  tolled  out  in  the  calm 

sunset  air, 
And  Sarsfield  stood  high  on  the  rampart  and  looked  o'er  the 

green  fields  of  Clare; 
And  anon  from  the  copses  of  Cratloe  a  flash  to  his  keen  eyes 

there  came, 
'Twas  the  spike  of  O'Hogan's  bright  basnet  glist'ning  forth  in 

the  red  sunset  flame ! 

Then  down  came  the  galloping  horseman  with  the  speed  of  a 
culverin  ball, 

And  he  reined  up  his  foam-flecked  charger  with  a  gallant  gam- 
bade by  the  wall; 

And  his  keen  eye  searched  tower,  fosse  and  rampart — they  lay 
all  securely  and  still — 

And  then  to  the  bold  Lord  of  Lucan,  he  told  what  he'd  seen 
from  the  hill! 


276  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

The  good  steed  he  rests  in  the  stable,  the  bold  rider  feasts  at  the 

board, 
But  the  gay,  laughing  revel  once  ended,  he'll  soon  have  a  feast 

for  his  sword. 
And  now  he  looks  out  at  the  window,  where  the  moonbeams 

flash  pale  on  the  square, 
For  Sarsfield,  full  dight  in  his  harness,  with  five  hundred  bold 

troopers,  is  there! 

He's  mounted  his  steed  in  the  moonlight,  and  away  from  the 

North  Gate  they  go, 
Where  the  woods  cast  their  black  spectral  shadows,  and  the 

streams  with  their  lone  voices  flow; 
The  peasants  awoke  from  their  slumbers,  and  prayed,  as  they 

swept  through  the  glen, 
For  they  thought  'twas  the  great  Garodh  Earla  that  thundered 

adown  with  his  men ! 

The  grey,  ghastly  midnight  was  'round  them,  the  banks  they 

were  rocky  and  steep; 
The  hills  with  one  sullen  roar  echoed,  for  the  huge  stream  was 

angry  and  deep ; 
But  the  bold  Lord  of  Lucan  he  cared  not,  he  asked  for  no  light 

save  the  moon's, 
And  he's  forded  the  broad,  lordly  Shannon  with  his  galloping 

guide  and  dragoons. 

The  star  of  the  morning  out  glimmered,  as  fast  by  Lisearly  they 

rode; 
As  they  swept  round  the  base  of  Comailta  the  sun  on  their 

bright  helmets  glowed. 


ROBERT   DWYER   JOYCE.  277 

Now  the  steeds  in  the  valley  are  grazing,  and  the  horsemen 

crouch  down  in  the  broom, 
And  Sarsfield  peers  out  like  an  eagle  on  the  low-lying  plains 

from  Sliav  Bloom. 

PART   THE   THIRD. 

O'Hogan  is  down  in  the  valleys,  a  watch  on  the  track  of  the 

foe, 
Johnnie  Moran  from  Brosna  is  marching,  that  his  men  be  in 

time  for  a  blow. 
All  day  from  the  bright  blooming  heather  the  tall  Lord  of  Lucan 

looks  down 
On  the  roads,  where  the  train  of  Dutch  Billy  on  its  slow  march 

of  danger  is  bowne. 

The  red  sunset  died  in  the  heavens;  night  fell  over  mountain 

and  shore; 
The  moon  shed  her  light  on  the  valleys,  and  the  stare  glimmered 

brightly  once  more; 
Then  Sarsfield  sprang  up  from  the  heather,  for  a  horse  tramp 

he  heard  on  the  waste, 
Twas  O'Hogan,  the  black  mountain  sweeping,  like  a  specter  of 

night,  in  his  haste! 

"  Lord  Lucan,  they've  camped  in  the  forest  that  skirts  Bally- 
nee  ty's  grey  tower; 

I've  found  out  the  path  to  fall  on  them  and  slay  in  the  dread 
midnight  hour; 

They  have  powder,  pontoons,  and  great  cannons — Dhar  Dhia! 
but  their  long  tubes  are  bright ! 

They  have  treasure  galeor  for  the  taking,  and  their  watchword 
is  'Sarsfield!'  to-night." 


278  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

The  star  of  the  midnight  was  shining  when  the  gallant  dragoons 
got  the  word, 

Each  sprang  with  one  bound  to  his  saddle,  and  looked  to  his 
pistols  amd  sword; 

And  away  down  Comailta's  deep  valleys  the  guide  and  bold 
Sarsfield  are  gone, 

While  the  long  stream  of  helmets  behind  them  in  the  cold  moon- 
light glimmered  and  shone. 

They  stayed  not  for  loud  brawling  river,  they  looked  not  for 
togher  or  path, 

They  tore  up  the  long  street  of  Cullen  with  the  speed  of  the 
storm  in  its  wrath; 

When  on  old  Ballyneety  they  thundered,  the  sentinel's  chal- 
lenge rang  clear — 

"  Ho!  Sarsfield's  the  word,"  cried  Lord  Lucan,  "and  you'll  soon 
find  that  Sarstield  is  here! " 

He  clove  through  the  sentinel's  basnet,  he  rushed  by  the  side  of 

the  glen, 
And  down  on  the  enemy's  convoy,  where  they  stood  to  their 

cannons  like  men; 
His  troopers  with  pistol  and  saber,  through  the  camp  like  a 

whirlwind  tore, 
With  a  crash  and  a  loud-ringing  war-cry,  and  a  plashing  and 

stamping  in  gore ! 

The  red-coated  convoy  they've  sabered,  Dutch  Billy's  mighty 

guns  they  have  ta'en., 
And  they  laugh  as  they  look  on  their  capture,  for  they'll  ne'er 

see  such  wonders  again; 


ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE.  279 

Those  guns,  with  one  loud  roaring  volley,  might  batter  a  strong 

mountain  down, 
Wirristhru  for  its  gallant  defenders,  if  they  e'er  came  to  Limerick 

town! 

They  rilled  them  and  rammed  them  with  powder,  they  turned 
down  their  mouths  to  the  clay. 

The  dry  casks  they  piled  all  around  them,  the  baggage  above 
did  they  lay; 

A  mine  train  they  laid  to  the  powder,  afar  to  the  greenwood 
out  thrown — 

"  Now,  give  us  the  match!  "  cried  Lord  Lucan,  "  and  an  earth- 
quake we'll  have  of  our  own!" 

O'Hogan  the  quick  fuse  he  lighted — it  whizzed — then  a  flash 

and  a  glare 
Of  broad  blinding  brightness  infernal   burst   out  in  the  calm 

midnight  air; 
A  hoarse  crash  of  thunder  volcanic  roared  up  to  the  bright  stars 

on  high, 
And  the  splinters  of  guns  and  of  baggage  showered  flaming 

around  through  the  sky! 

The  firm  earth  it  rocked  and  and  it  trembled,  the  camp  showed 

its  red  pools  of  gore, 
And  old  Ballyneety's  grey  castle  came  down  with  a  crash  and  a 

roar; 
The  fierce  sound  o'er  highland  and  lowland  rolled  on  like  the 

dread  earthquake's  tramp, 
And  it  wakened  Dutch  Bill  from  his  slumbers  and  gay  dreams 

that  night  in  his  camp ! 


280 


IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 


Lord  Lucaii  dashed  back  o'er  the  Shannon  ere  the  bright  star  of 

morning  arose, 
With  his  men  through  the  North  Gate  he  clattered ,  unhurt  and 

unseen  by  his  foes; 
Johnny  Moran  rushed  down  from  Comailta — not  a  foe  was  alive 

for  his  blade, 
But  his  men  searched  the  black  gory  ruins,  and  the  deil's  in  the 

spoil  that  they  made ! 


IAMKS  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


ERENGER,  the  Galilean  Nightingale,  was 
ushered  into  life  in  the  humble  dwelling  of 
a  tailor,  and  Burns — Nature's  "  bonnie  bard" — first 
opened  his  eyes  to  the  reality  of  existence  in  a  peas- 
ant's lowly  cot.  Like  these  illustrious  favorites  of 
the  lyric  muse,  the  subject  of  our  present  paper  was 
born  in  humble,  inauspicious  circumstances  His 
father,  a  native  of  Limerick  County,  about  1801  set- 
tled in  Fishamble  street,  Dublin,  where  he  married 
a  Miss  Smith,  who  became  the  mother  of  James 
Clarence,  in  the  early  part  of  that  eventful  year  (1803) 
which  witnessed  the  noble  Emmet's  death  upon  a 
scaffold  and  hailed  the  birth  of  gentle  Gerald  Griffin. 
Of  his  school-boy  days  we  know  little  more  than 
that  he  received  the  rudiments  of  an  education  in 
Derby  lane.  What  the  direction  of  his  young  ideas 
was  the  school  registers  say  not.  But  this  tabella 
erassa  is  not  a  proof  that  he  was  devoid  of  talent;  for 
it  is  a  fact  well  attested  by  experience  that  those  who 
run  most  successfully  through  their  college  curricu- 
lum very  seldom  distinguish  themselves  in  the  broad 
arena  of  the  world. 

(281) 


282  HUSH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

We  do  know,  however,  that  the  youthful  Mangan 
had  a  gentle,  loving  spirit,  and  that  as  attorney's 
clerk  he  supported  his  mother  and  two  sisters,  who 
were  dependent  on  him  for  sustenance;  he  toiled  all 
day  over  mechanical  formulas  of  law,  in  order  to 
fulfill  his  filial  and  fraternal  obligations,  and  pro- 
longed his  vigils  far  into  the  night  in  pursuit  of 
knowledge.  A  few  years  of  well-directed  labor  and 
almost  undivided  attention  sufficed  to  make  him  a 
prodigy  of  linguistic  learning.  Besides  being  versed 
in  most  of  the  modern  and  two  or  more  of  the 
ancient  languages,  he  acquired  an  immese  fund  of 
general  knowledge;  but  at  what  cost  of  energy  and 
application  those  students  alone  can  calculate  who 
have  laid  down  the  principle  that  to  acquire  a  great 
store  of  knowledge  requires  great  labor.  In  the  lan- 
guage of  ^Eneas: 

Tantse  molis  erat  Romanam  condere  gentem. 

Thus  passed  his  youth  in  acquiring  the  means  to 
an  end  of  triumph  and  literary  fame.  His  triumphs, 
in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  were  indeed  like  angels' 
visits — few  and  far  between.  "His  fate,"  says  John 
Mitchel,  "was  the  common  fate  of  poets — he  loved 
and  was  disappointed."  An  avalon  of  beauty  and 
ineffable  bliss  dawned  upon  his  vigorous  imagina- 
tion, and  his  feelings  found  expression  in  song.  The 
maiden  on  whom  he  lavished  his  love  was  enraptured 


JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN.  283 

for  a  while  by  the  sweetness  and  depth  of  his  effu- 
sions. She  encouraged  his  advances  until  every  fibre 
of  his  soul  was  entwined  round  her,  until  she  became 
a  part  of  his  very  existence;  and  then,  meanly  bar- 
tering the  pure  and  generous  affections  of  a  noble 
soul  for  the  luxuries  of  a  rich  dwelling,  she  tore  him 
from  her  heart  and  rudely  cast  him  into  "  outer 
darkness." 

One  of  his  translations  gives  color  and  form  to 
his  own  feelings  on  this  occasion: 

AND  THEN  NO  MORE. 

I  SAW  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more; 
Twas  Eden's  light  on  Earth  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 
Amid  the  throng  she  pass'd  along  the  meadow-floor; 
Spring  seem'd  to  smile  on  Earth  awhile ,  and  then  no  more. 
But  whence  she  came,  which  way  she  went,  what  garb  she 

wore , 
I  noted  not.     I  gazed  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more; 
'T  was  Paradise  on  earth  awhile,  and  then  no  more; 
Oh!  what  avail  my  vigils  pale,  my  magic  lore ? 
She  shone  before  mine  eyes  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 
The  shallop  of  my  Peace  is  wrecked  on  Beauty's  shore; 
Near  Hope's  fair  isle  it  rode  awhile,  and  then  no  more! 

1  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more; 

Earth  looked  like  Heaven  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more. 


284  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Her  presence  thrill'd  and  lighted  to  its  inner  core 
My  desert  breast  a  little  while ,  and  then  no  more. 
So  may,  perchance,  a  meteor  glance  at  midnight  o'er 
Some  ruin'd  pile  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more! 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more; 

The  earth  was  Peri-land  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 

Oh,  might  I  see  but  once  again,  as  once  before, 

Through  chance  or  wile,  that  shape  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 

Death  soon  would  heal  my  griefs!   This  heart,  now  sad  and  sore, 

Would  beat  anew  a  little  while ,  and  then  no  more ! 

False  Frances  was  the  first  and  the  last  that  thrilled 
his  "desert  breast."  He  soon  became  callous  to  the 
beauties  of  the  world.  Life  for  him  had  no  more 
attractions.  With  the  Latin  poet  he  could  sadly  but 
sincerely  say:  "Nihil  amplius  volo."  Like  Edgar 
Allen  Poe,  he  "  loved  and  lost/'  and  like  him,  too, 
he  fell  into  despair. 

Among  his  original  compositions  there  is  a  grim 
and  ghastly  poem,  entitled  "The  Nameless  One/' 
which  is  an  epitome  of  the  inner-Mangan.  It  runs 
thus: 

THE  NAMELESS  ONE. 

ROLL  on,  my  song,  like  the  rushing  river 

That  sweeps  along  to  the  mighty  sea ; 
God  will  inspire  me  while  I  deliver 

My  soul  to  thee. 


JAMES   CLARENCE   MANOAN.  285 

Tell  thou  the  world  when  my  bones  are  whit'ning 

Amid  the  last  homes  of  youth  and  eld, 
That  there  was  once  one  whose  veins  ran  lightning 

No  eye  beheld. 

Tell  how  his  manhood  was  one  drear  night  hour — 

How  shone  for  him  'mid  the  grief  and  gloom 
No  star  of  all  that  Heaven  sends  to  light  our 

Path  to  the  tomb. 

Roll  on  my  soul,  and  to  after  ages 

Tell  how,  disdaining  all  earth  can  give, 
He  would  have  taught  men  from  Wisdom's  pages 

The  way  to  live. 

Tell  how  the  nameless,  condemned  for  years  long 

To  herd  with  demons  from  hell  beneath, 
Saw  things  that  made  him  with  groans  and  tears  long 

For  even  death. 

Go  on  to  tell  how,  with  genius  wasted, 

Betrayed  in  friendship,  befooled  in  love, 
With  spirits  shipwrecked  and  young  hopes  blasted, 

He  still,  still  strove. 

And  tell  how  now,  amid  wreck  and  sorrow, 

And  want  and  sickness,  and  homeless  nights, 
He  bides  in  calmness  the  silent  morrow 

That  no  day  lights. 

And  lives  he  still  ?     Yes,  old  and  hoary 
At  forty- nine,  from  despair  and  woe, 
He  lives,  enduring  what  future  story 

Will  never  know. 


286  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Such  is  the  picture  of  Mangan's  inner  life;  such, 
alas!  was  the  life  of  a  consummate  poet,  an  ardent 
patriot,  a  man  of  splendid  talents  and  liberal  acquire- 
ments. In  his  social  relations,  unlike  the  majority 
of  literary  men,  he  seldom  referred  to  his  trials  or 
triumphs.  Since  the  year  1828  to  the  time  of  his 
death  he  had  been  before  the  public  as  a  regular  con- 
tributor to  the  best,  magazines  of  the  Irish  metropo- 
lis; and  even  when  O'Connell  shook  the  senate  halls 
of  England  the  influence  of  Mangan's  pen  was  felt 
and  his  genius  acknowledged.  Yet  he  seldom  had  a 
word  to  say  even  to  friends  about  his  own  projects  or 
achievements.  It  is  not  so  with  the  genus  irritabile 
of  our  times. 

Honest  John  Mitchel,  the  poet's  faithful  friend, 
describes  him  as  a  man  under  the  middle  height, 
with  a  finely  formed  head,  clear  blue  eyes,  and 
features  of  a  peculiar  mold  and  delicacy.  His  coun- 
tenance bore  traces  of  sorrow,  and  his  figure,  though 
well  shaped,  was  meagre  more  from  care  and  ill-usage 
than  by  nature.  Like  most  men  of  true  genius,  he 
was  shy,  sensitive  and  sympathetic  almost  to  a  fault; 
and  though  he  would  enter  warmly  into  conversation 
with  intimate  friends,  he  seldom  sought  society. 

He  had  no  ostensible  connection  with  the  "  Young 
Ireland  Association;"  yet  there  was  not  a  mem- 
ber of  that  brilliant  constellation  of  Irish  genius 


JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN.  2S7 

more  active  in  disseminating  the  doctrine  of  physical 
force  and  resistance  to  tyrants.  He  held,  perhaps, 
the  first  rank  among  the  staff  of  poetical  writers 
whose  productions  gave  a  high  literary  standing  to 
the  Nation  almost  from  the  initial  number. 

All  his  poems  are  pregnant  with  the  fire  of  that 
patriotism  which  hade  the  genius  of  Davis  to  vibrate; 
and  as  no  species  of  writing  has  such  influence  on 
the  human  heart  as  poetry,  and  as  few  men,  accord- 
ing to  Mitchel,  were  better  acquainted  with  the  mani- 
fold sounds  and  exquisite  notes  of  the  Irish  harp 
than  James  Clarence  Mangan,  it  may  be  safely 
asserted  that  his  harmonious  songs  caused  many  a 
Celtic  heart  to  pulsate  with  patriotic  emotion, 

From  the  shelving  shore  of  Antrim 

To  the  sunny  slopes  of  Beare. 

From  the  establishment  of  the  United  Irishman  by 
Mitchel  until  its  suppression  in  '48,  Mangan  con- 
tributed regularly  to  its  columns,  and  his  splendid 
translations  from  Spanish,  French  and  German 
formed  a  new  feature  of  newspaper  literature  in  Ire- 
land. His  translations  from  the  Gaelic  were  very 
considerable,  and  selected  from  the  most  mournful 
pieces  of  the  Munster  Bards.  "  Patrick  Sarsfield  " 
and  "Dark  Rosaleen"  lost  nothing  of  their  original 
vigor  and  intensity  under  his  master  hand.  Nor  did 
the  "  Cathaleen  Ni  Houlihan  "  lose  any  of  her  warmth 


288  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

and  beauty  in  exchanging  her  "Bearla  fina"  for  an 
Anglican  robe.  "  Cathaleen  Ni  Houlihan"  was  a 
poetical  name  for  Erin. 

LET  none  believe  this  lovely  Eve  outworn  and  old; 
Fair  is  her  form,  her  blood  is  warm,  her  heart  is  bold — 
Though  strangers  long  have  wrought  her  wrong,  she  will  not 

fawn, 
Will  not  prove  mean,  our  Cathaleen  Ni  Houlihan. 

We  will  not  bear  the  chains  we  wear,  nor  wear  them  long; 
We  seem  bereaven,  but  mighty  Heaven  will  make  us  strong. 
The  God  who  led  through  Ocean  Red  all  Israel  on 
Will  aid  our  Queen,  our  Cathaleen  Ni  Houlihan. 

He  has,  according  to  competent  authority,  by  which 
the  English  version  was  compared  with  the  original 
manuscript,  given  us  an  excellent  translation  of  St. 
Patrick's  Hymn  before  Tara.  This  Irish  MS.,  which 
Usher  believed  to  be  1260  years  old,  is  still  preserved 
in  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  In  these  translations 
from  the  language  of  the  Brehon  Law,  it  is  said 
that,  "  while  retaining  all  the  phraseology  of  the 
originals,  they  have  lost  nothing  of  their  primitive 
energy  and  beauty."  His  rendition  of  German  into 
English  was  equally  clever  and  successful.  Most 
literary  connoisseurs  prefer  his  translation  of 
Schiller's  beautiful  poem,  "  The  Ideal,"  to  that  of 
Bulwer  from  the  same  original.  This  is  Mangan's 
version : 


JAMES  CLAKENCE  MANGAN.  289 

THE  IDEAL. 

EXTINGUISHED  in  the  darkness  lies  the  sun 

That  lighted  up  my  shrivelled  world  of  wonder; 
Those  fairy-bands  Imagination  spun 

Around  my  heart  have  long  been  reft  asunder. 
Gone  forever  is  the  fine  belief — 

The  all  too  generous  trust  in  the  Ideal ; 
All  my  divinities  have  died  of  grief, 

And  left  me  wedded  to  the  rude  and  Real. 

This  needs  no  commentary. 

There  is  one  of  his  productions  which  seems  to 
bespeak  alike  the  prophet  and  the  poet — his 

IRISH  NATIONAL  HYMN. 

O  IRELAND,  ancient  Ireland — 

Ancient  yet  forever  young — 
You,  our  mother-home  and  sireland, 

You,  at  length  have  found  a  tongue. 
The  flag  of  freedom  floats  unfurled, 

And  as  the  mighty  God  existeth 

Who  giveth  victory,  when  and  where  he  listeth, 
Thou  yet  shalt  wake  and  shake  the  nations  of  the  world. 

For  this  dull  world  still  slumbers, 

Weetless  of  its  wants  and  loves; 
Though,  like  Galileo,  numbers 

Cry  aloud:  "  It  moves,  it  moves!" 


?$fta«5 

[uffiv; 
^rmtf^ 


290  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

All  march,  but  few  decry  the  goal; 

Oh,  Ireland,  be  it  thy  high  duty  - 
To  teach  the  world  the  might  of  Moral  Beauty, 

And  stamp  God's  image  on  the  struggling  soul. 

***** 

Go  on,  then,  all  rejoiceful, 

Marching  on  thy  career  unbowed ; 
Ireland,  let  thy  noble  voiceful 

Spirit  cry  to  God  aloud. 

Man  will  bid  thee  speed, 

God  will  aid  thee  in  thy  need. 
The  time,  the  hour,  the  power  are  near; 

Be  sure  thou  soon  shalt  form  the  vanguard 

Of  that  illustrious  band  whom  heaven  and  man  guard , 
And  these  words  come  from  one  whom  some  have  called  a  seer. 

One  specimen  more  and  we  shall  draw  this  brief 
and  imperfect  paper  to  a  close.  Such  a  specimen  as 
this  will  not  surely  tire  any  true  lover  of  poetry.  It 
is  a  translation  of  Bucket's 


DYING  FLOWER. 

AND  woe  to  mel  fond,  foolish  one, 

To  tempt  the  all-absorbing  ray, 
To  think  a  flower  could  love  a  sun 

Nor  feel  her  soul  dissolve  away; 
But  vainly  in  my  bitterness 

I  speak  the  language  of  despair: 
In  life,  in  death,  I  still  must  bless 

The  sun,  the  light,  the  cradling  air. 


JAMES  CfLARENCE   MANGAN.  291 

Mine  early  love  to  them  I  gave; 

And  now  that  yon  bright  orb  on  high 
Illumines  but  a  wider  grave, 

For  them  I  breathe  my  final  sigh. 

How  often  soared  my  soul  aloft, 

In  balmy  bliss  too  deep  to  speak ; 
When  zephyrs  came  and  kissed  with  soft 

Sweet  incense-breath  my  blushing  cheek ! 
When  beauteous  bees  and  butterflies 

Flew  round  me  in  the  summer  beam, 
Or  when  some  virgin's  glorious  eyes 

Bent  o'er  me  like  a  dazzling  dream. 

This  is  a  poem  with  a  moral,  aimost  perfect  in 
rhyme  and  rhythm,  abounding  in  alliteration  and 
sparkling  with  beauty  of  thought  and  expression. 

Strange  to  say  that  an  admiring  public  should 
neglect  a  man  of  Mangan's  taste  and  talent;  but  such 
neglect  is  almost  the  common  inheritance  of  genius. 
Spencer,  the  "  sweet,  foreign  songster  of  the  Mula," 
ended  his  days  in  a  public  hospital;  Tasso  could 
seldom  get  a  good  suit  of  clothes;  and  Dry  den,  who 
lived  a  life  of  penury,  died  in  distress.  Like  those, 
Mangan  was  destitute  of  the  comforts  of  a  home,  and 
like  them  he  was  driven  to  drinking  to  excess.  Dr. 
Petrie  obtained  a  situation  for  him  in  the  Library  of 
Trinity  College,  but  this  succor  came  too  late  to  stay 
the  ravages  of  want  and  despair.  Nor  could  all  the 
efforts  of  the  learned  Father  Meehan  effect  more  than 


292  IKISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

to  " gently  slope"  his  pathway  to  a  premature  grave. 
Even  when  a  mere  skeleton  he  still  wrote  for  the 
newspapers,  to  procure  him  the  necessaries  of  life. 

The  Rev.  C.  P.  Meehan  has  left  us  the  best  memoir 
of  Mangan  which  has  so  far  been  written.  The 
reverend  author  of  the  "  Flight  of  the  Earls  "  fre- 
quently assisted  Mangan  while  living,  and  adminis- 
tered to  him  the  last  Sacraments  when  dying.  A 
poet  himself,  a  nationalist  and  a  scholar,  he  was  well 
qualified  for  such  a  work. 

We  wish,  however,  he  had  given  us  a  more  strik- 
ing picture  of  the  coterie  of  literary  worthies — 
Meagher,  Mangan,  Mitchel,  Duffy  and  Williams — who 
were  wont  to  meet  one  evening  of  each  week  in  his 
own  little  study,  at  the  rectory  on  Exchange  Street, 
for  the  discussion  of  matters,  literary  and  political. 
But,  unfortunately,  the  writer's  modesty  deterred 
him  from  bringing  out  in  bold  relief  a  group  in 
which  he  himself  was  a  prominent  and  important 
figure. 

From  1832  to  1834  Mangan  was  associated  with 
Dr.  O'Donovan,  O'Keeffe,  O'Curry  and  Dr.  Petrie  in 
writing  and  arranging  the  "  Ordinance  Survey 
Memoir  of  Ireland";  and  it  was  during  this  period 
that  he  made  most  of  his  translations  from  the  Irish 
language.  O'Donovan  and  O'Curry  rendered  many 
remains  of  the  Irish  bards  into  English  prose,  and 


JAMES  CLARENCE   MANGAN.  293 

Mangan  turned  the  literal  translations  into  verse 
with  a  felicity  which  astonished  his  literary  contem- 
poraries. The  distinguished  archaeologist,  Petrie, 
was  at  that  time  editor  of  the  Dublin  Penny  Journal, 
for  which  our  author  wrote  almost  regularly  over  the 
pseudonym  of  "  Clarence."  After  completing  his 
engagement  on  the  "  Survey  "  business  he  became  a 
writer  in  the  Dublin  University  Magazine,  and 
through  the  pages  of  that  brilliant  periodical  he  first 
appeared  in  the  character  of  translator  from  Conti- 
nental languages.  He  had  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  German  and  Spanish,  and  needed  no  outside 
assistance  to  select  the  choicest  garlands  from 
foreign  gardens.  During  his  incumbency  as  Libra- 
rian of  Trinity  College  he  published  in  the  University 
Magazine  a  series  of  translations  under  the  caption 
of  "  Litene  Orientales."  These,  of  course,  were  the 
pure  emanations  of  Mangan 's  own  muse  with  a  savor 
of  Orientalism  given  thereunto.  The  best  known  o\ 
this  batch  are  "The  Time  of  the  Barmecides/'  and 
"Boating  Down  the  Bosphorus."  These  possess 
much  merit  and  seem  to  grow  in  popularity  with 
the  lapse  of  time. 

When  Thomas  Davis  was  struck  down  in  the 
midst  of  his  labors  and  the  flowering  of  his  intellec- 
tual strength,  Charles  Gavaii  Duffy  attempted  to 
supply  his  place  by  inducing  Mangan  to  write  more 


294  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

frequently  for  the  Nation.  But  he  could  not  get  him 
to  pull  in  harness  for  any  considerable  time  at  a 
stretch;  and  although  his  poetry,  in  many — very 
many — respects,  is  superior  to  anything  Davis  wrote, 
he  could  not  fill  the  place  made  vacant  by  the  death 
of  the  latter. 

In  the  Fall  of  1848  he  was  a  patient  at  St.  Vin- 
cent's Hospital,  and  while  there  arranged  with  the 
patriotic  publisher,  John  O'Daly,  for  the  issuing  of 
the  "Poets  and  Poetry  of  Munster." 

This  little  work  gained  at  once  a  wide  popularity, 
and  the  profits  accruing  from  large  sales  relieved 
the  pressing  wants  of  the  translator  and  editor. 
But  early  in  the  next  year  he  was  to  be  found  in 
the  hospital  again — this  time  in  the  Meath  Hospital. 
Finding  that  the  end  was  approaching,  he  sent  for 
his  faithful  friend,  Father  Meehan,  who  watched 
over  him  day  after  day. 

As  the  Poet-Priest  entered  the  sick-room  on  the 
morning  of  June  19th,  1849,  Mangan  said  to  him: 
"  I  feel  that  my  hour  is  near,  and  I  want  to  be 
anointed." 

On  the  evening  of  the  following  day  he  expired 
with  the  Saviour's  name  upon  his  lips,  his  hands 
crossed  upon  his  breast  and  his  eyes  firmly  fixed 
upon  the  symbol  of  Redemption,  which  was  held  up 


JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN.  295 

to  his  waning  vision  by  his  true  friend  and  spiritual 
Father. 

Such  is  the  outline  of  Mangan's  career.  He  lived 
forty-six  years,  and  in  that  short  span  accomplished 
a  great  deal.  "  He  might  have  done  more,"  it  is 
true,  and  he  certainly  would  under  different  circum- 
stances. We  thank  him  for  all  he  has  done,  instead 
of  finding  fault  because  he  has  not  done  more. 

Many  of  his  original  poems  and  translations  have 
found  a  permanent  place  in  the  best  standard  works 
of  English  literature,  and  his  name  occupies  a  warm 
corner  in  the  affection  of  the  Irish  race,  both  at 
home  and  abroad. 

Ireland  has  raised  a  monument  to  his  memory  in 
Glasnevin;  and  when  the  proud  ones,  who  sneered  at 
his  threadbare  coat  and  shunned  him  for  his  poverty, 
shall  be  remembered  only  in  connection  with  his 
fame,  his  songs  shall  perpetuate  untarnished  and 
unimpaired  the  brilliant  genius  and  ardent  patriot- 
ism of  James  Clarence  Mangan. 

The  following  ballad  was  written  under  the  inspi- 
ration of  the  "  physical  force "  doctrines  of  the 
"  Young  Irelanders,"  and  it  is  certainly  well  calcu- 
lated to  rouse  an  oppressed  and  plundered  people  to 
action.  Subsequently  it  became  a  favorite  among  the 
members  of  the  Fenian  Brotherhood: 


IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

HIGHWAY  FOR  FREEDOM. 

"  MY  suffering  country  SHALL  be  freed, 

And  shine  with  tenfold  glory!" 
So  spake  the  gallant  Winkelreid, 

Renowned  in  German  story. 
"  No  tyrant,  ev'n  of  kingly  grade, 

Shall  cross  or  darken  my  way ! " 
Out  flashed  his  blade,  and  so  he  made 

For  Freedom's  course  a  highway! 

We  want  a  man  like  this,  with  power 

To  rouse  the  world  by  one  word; 
We  want  a  chief  to  meet  the  hour, 

And  march  the  masses  onward. 
But  chief  or  none,  through  blood  and  fire, 

My  Fatherland,  lies  thy  way! 
The  men  must  fight  who  dare  desire 

For  Freedom's  course  a  highway ! 

Alas !  I  can  but  idly  gaze 

Around  in  grief  and  wonder; 
The  People's  will  alone  can  raise 

The  People's  shout  of  thunder. 
Too  long,  my  friends,  you  faint  for  fear, 

In  secret  crypt  and  by-way; 
At  last  be  Men !    J3tand  forth ,  and  clear 

For  Freedom's  course  a  highway ! 

You  intersect  wood,  lea,  and  lawn, 
With  roads  for  monster  wagons, 

Wherein  you  speed  like  lightning,  drawn 
By  fiery  iron  dragons. 


JAMES  CLARENCE   MANGAN.  297 

So  do!     Such  work  is  good,  no  doubt; 

But  why  not  seek  some  nigh  way 
For  MIND,  as  well  ?    Path  also  out 

For  Freedom's  course  a  highway ! 

Yes !  up !  and  let  your  weapons  be 

Sharp  steel  and  self-reliance ! 
Why  waste  your  burning  energy 

In  void  and  vain  defiance, 
And  phrases  fierce  and  fugitive  ? 

Tis  deeds,  not  words,  that  /weigh — 
Your  swords  and  guns  alone  caft  give 

To  Freedom's  course  a  highway. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  THREE  COWS. 

d 

(Translated  from  the  Irish.) 


[This  ballad,  which  is  of  homely  cast,  was  intended  as  a  rebuke  to  the 
saucy  pride  of  a  woman  in  humble  life,  who  assumed  airs  of  consequence 
from  being  the  possessor  of  three  cows.  Its  author's  name  is  unknown,  but 
its  age  can  be  determined,  from  the  language,  as  belonging  to  the  early  part 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  That  it  was  formerly  very  popular  in  Munster 
maybe  concluded  from  the  fact  that  the  phrase,  "Easy,  oh,  woman  of  the 
three  cows!"  has  become  a  saying  in  that  Province,  on  any  occasion  upon 
which  it  is  desirable  to  lower  the  pretensions  of  a  boastful  or  consequential 
person.] 

O,  WOMAN  of  Three  Cows,  agra!    don't  let  your  tongue  thus 

rattle! 

O,  don't  be  saucy,  don't  be  stiff,  because  you  may  have  cattle. 
I  have  seen — and,  here's  my  hand  to  you,  I  only  say  what's 

true — 
A  many  a  one  with  twice  your  stock  not  half  so  proud  as  you. 


298  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Good   luck  to  you,  don't  scorn   the   poor,  and  don't  be  their 

despiser, 

For  worldly  wealth  soon  melts  away,  and  cheats  the  very  miser; 
And   Death  soon  strips   the   proudest   wreath   from  haughty 

human  brows. 
Then  don't  be  stiff,  and  don't  be  proud,  good  Woman  of  Three 

Cows! 

See  where  Mononia's  heroes  lie,  proud  Owen  More's  descendants: 
'  T  is  they  that  won  the  glorious  name ,  and  had  the  grand 

attendants ! 

If  they  were  forced  to  bow  to  Fate,  as  every  mortal  bows, 
Can  you  be  proud,  can  you  be  stiff,  my  Woman  of  Three  Cows! 

The  brave  sons  of  the  Lord  of  Clare,  they  left  the  land  to 

mourning; 
Movrone!    for  they  were  banished,  with  no  hope    of    their 

returning — 
Who  knows  in  what  abodes  of  want  those  youths  were  driven 

to  house  ? 
Yet  you  give  yourself  these  airs,  O,  Woman  of  Three  Cows! 

O,  think  of  Donnell  of  the   Ships,  the   Chief  whom   nothing 

daunted — 

See  how  he  fell  in  distant  Spain,  unchronicled ,  unchanted! 
He  sleeps,  the  great  O' Sullivan,  where  thunder  cannot  rouse — 
Then  ask  yourself,  should  you  be  proud,  good  Woman  of  Three 

Cows! 

OHuark,  Maguire,  those  souls  of  fire,  whose  names  are  shrined 

in  story — 
Think  how  their  high  achievements  once  made  Erin's  greatest 

glory— 


JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN.  299 

Yet  now  their  bones  lie  mouldering  under  weeds  and  cypress 

boughs, 
And  so,  for  all  your  pride,  will  yours,  O,  Woman  of   Three 

Cows ! 

Th'  0'Carrolls,also,  famed  when  Fame  was  only  for  the  boldest, 
Rest  in  forgotten  sepulchres  with  Erin's  best  and  oldest; 
Yet  who  so  great  as  they  of  yore  in  battle  or  carouse  ? 
Just  think  of  that,  and  hide  your  head,  good  Woman  of  Three 
Cows ! 

Your  neighbor's  poor,  and  you  it  seems  are  big  with  vain  ideas, 
Because,  forsooth,  you've  got  three  cows,  one  more,  I  see,  than 

she  has. 

That  tongue  of  yours  wags  more  at  times  than  Charity  allows, 
But,  if  you're  strong,  be  merciful,  great  Woman  of  Three  Cows! 

9 
THE   SUMMING   UP. 

Now,  there  you  go!    You  still,  of  course,  keep  up  your  scornful 

bearing, 

And  I'm  too  poor  to  hinder  you;  but,  by  the  cloak  I'm  wearing, 
If  I  had  but  four  cows  myself,  even  tho'  you  were  my  spouse, 
I'd  thwack  you  well  to  cure  your  pride,  my  Woman  of  Three 

Cows! 


300  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

THE  FAIR  HILLS  OF  EIRE,   O! 

TAKE  a  blessing  from  my  heart  to  the  land  of  my  birth, 

And  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O! 
And  to  all  that  yet  survive  of  Eibhear's  tribe  on  earth, 

On  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O ! 
In  that  land  so  delightful  the  wild  thrush's  lay 
Seems  to  pour  a  lament  forth  for  Eire's  decay — 
Alas !  alas !  why  pine  I  a  thousand  miles  away 

From  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O! 

The  soil  is  rich  and  soft,  the  air  is  mild  and  bland, 

Of  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  0 ! 
Her  barest  rock  is  greener  to  me  than  this  rude  land — 

Oh,  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O! 

Her  woods  are  tall  and  straight,  grove  rising  over  grove; 
Trees  flourish  in  her  glens  below,  and  on  her  heights  above, 
Oh,  in  heart  and  in  soul,  I  shall  ever,  ever  love 

The  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O! 

A  noble  tribe,  moreover,  are  the  now  hapless  Gael, 

On  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O! 
A  tribe  in  battle's  hour  unused  to  shrink  or  fail 

On  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O! 
For  this  is  my  lament  in  bitterness  outpoured, 
To  see  them  slain  or  scattered  by  the  Saxon  sword — 
Oh,  woe  of  woes,  to  see  a  foreign  spoiler  horde 

On  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O I 

Broad  and  tall  rise  the  Cruachs  in  the  golden  morning's  glow 

On  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O! 
O'er  her  smooth  grass  for  ever  sweet  cream  and  honey  flow 

On  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  0 ! 


JAMES  CLARENCE   MANGAN.  301 

Oh,  I  long,  I  am  pining,  again  to  behold 
The  land  that  belongs  to  the  brave  Gael  of  old ; 
Far  dearer  to  my  heart  than  a  gift  of  gems  or  gold 
Are  the  fair  HiUs  of  Eire,  O! 

The  dew-drops  lie  bright  'mid  the  grass  and  yellow  corn 

On  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O! 
The  sweet-scented  apples  blush  redly  in  the  morn 

On  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O! 
The  water-cress  and  sorrel  till  the  vales  below; 
The  streamlets  are  hush'd,  till  the  evening  breezes  blow, 
While  the  waves  of  the  Suir,  noble  river!  ever  flow 

Near  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O! 

A  fruitful  clime  is  Eire's,  through  valley,  meadow,  plain, 

And  the  fair  land  of  Eire,  O! 
The  very  ' '  Bread  of  Life  "  is  in  the  yellow  grain 

On  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  0! 
Far  dearer  unto  me  than  the  tones  music  yields, 
Is  the  lowing  of  the  kine  and  the  calves  in  her  fields, 
And  the  sunlight  that  shone  long  ago  on  the  shields 

Of  the  Gaels,  on  the  fair  Hills  of  Eire,  O! 


SOUL  AND  COUNTRY. 

ARISE!  my  slumbering  soul,  arise! 
And  learn  what  yet  remains  for  thee 

To  dree  or  do ! 

The  signs  are  flaming  in  the  skies; 
A  struggling  world  would  yet  be  free, 
And  live  anew. 


302  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

The  earthquake  hath  not  yet  been  born, 
That  soon  shall  rock  the  lands  around, 

Beneath  their  base. 
Immortal  freedom's  thunder  horn, 
As  yet,  yields  but  a  doleful  sound 
To  Europe's  race. 

Look  round,  my  soul,  and  see  and  say 
If  those  about  thee  understand 

Their  mission  here ; 

The  will  to  smite — the  power  to  slay — 
Abound  in  every  heart  and  hand, 
Afar,  anear. 

But,  God!  must  yet  the  conqueror's  sword 
Pierce  mind,  as  heart,  in  this  proud  year  ? 

Oh,  dream  it  not! 

It  sounds  a  false,  blaspheming  word, 

Begot  and  born  of  moral  fear — 

And  ill-begot! 

To  leave  the  world  a  name  is  nought; 
To  leave  a  name  for  glorious  deeds 

And  works  of  love — 
A  name  to  waken  lightning  thought, 
And  fire  the  soul  of  him  who  reads, 

This  tells  above. 
Napoleon  sinks  to-day  before 

Th'  ungilded  shrine,  the  single  soul 

Of  Washington; 

Truth's  name,  alone,  shall  man  adore, 
Long  as  the  waves  of  time  shall  roll 
Henceforward  on! 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN.  303 

My  countrymen!  my  words  are  weak, 
My  health  is  gone,  my  soul  is  dark, 

My  heart  is  chill — 
Yet  would  I  fain  and  fondly  seek 
Too  see  you  borne  in  freedom's  bark 

O'er  ocean  still. 

Beseech  your  God,  and  bide  your  hour — 
He  cannot,  will  not  long  be  dumb; 

Even  now  His  tread 
Is  heard  o'er  earth  with  coming  power; 
And  coming,  trust  me,  it  will  come, 
Else  were  He  dead! 

CAHAL  MOR  OF  THE  WINE-RED  HAND. 

(A  rieion  of  Connaught  in  the  Thirteenth  Century.) 

I  WALKED  entranced 

Through  a  land  of  morn; 
The  sun,  with  wondrous  excess  of  light, 
Shone  down  and  glanced 

Over  seas  of  corn, 

And  lustrous  gardens  aleft  and  right. 
Even  in  the  clime 

Of  resplendent  Spain 
Beams  no  such  sun  upon  such  a  land; 
But  it  was  the  time, 

Twas  in  the  reign 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand. 

Anon  stood  nigh 

'By  my  side  a  man 
Of  princely  aspect  and  port  sublime. 
Him  queried  I, 


304  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

"Oh,  my  lord  and  khan, 
What  clime  is  this,  and  what  golden  time?" 
When  he—"  The  clime 

Is  a  clime  to  praise, 

The  clime  is  Erin's,  the  green  and  bland; 
And  it  is  the  time, 

These  be  the  days 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand!" 

Then  I  saw  thrones 

And  circling  fires, 

And  a  dome  rose  near  me,  as  by  a  spell, 
Whence  flowed  the  tones 

Of  silver  lyres 

And  many  voices  in  wreathed  swell; 
And  their  thrilling  chime 

Fell  on  mine  ears 

As  the  heavenly  hymn  of  angel-band — 
"  It  is  now  the  time, 

These  be  the  years 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand  ' ;' 

1  sought  the  hall, 

And,  behold! — a  change 
From  light  to  darkness,  from  joy  to  woe» 
Kings,  nobles,  all, 

Looked  aghast  and  strange 
The  minstrel-group  sate  in  dumbest  showl 


JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN.  305 

Had  some  great  crime 

Wrought  this  dread  amaze , 
This  terror  ?     None  seemed  to  understand. 
'Twas  then  the  time, 

We  were  in  the  days 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand. 

I  again  walked  forth ; 

But  lo  I  the  sky 

Showed  fleckt  with  blood,  and  an  alien  sun 
Glared  from  the  north, 

And  there  stood  on  high, 
Amid  his  shorn  beams,  a  Skeleton! 
It  was  by  the  stream 

Of  the  castled  Maine, 
One  autumn-eve,  in  the  Teuton's  land 
That  I  dreamed  this  dream 
Of  the  time  and  reign 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  hand! 


LAMENT  FOR  BANBA. 

OH,  my  land!  oh,  my  love! 

What  a  woe,  and  how  deep 
Is  thy  death  to  my  long-mourning  soul! 
God  alone,  God  above, 

Can  awake  thee  from  sleep — 
Can  release  thee  from  bondage  and  dole ! 
Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba  I 

21 


306  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

As  a  tree  in  its  prime, 

Which  the  axe  layeth  low, 
Didst  thou  fall,  O,  unfortunate  land! 
Not  by  Time,  nor  thy  crime, 

Came  the  shock  and  the  blow. 
They  were  given  by  a  false  felon  hand ! 
Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba ! 
Oh,  my  grief  of  all  griefs 

Is  to  see  how  thy  throne 
Is  usurped,  whilst  thyself  art  in  thrall! 
Other  lands  have  their  chiefs, 

Have  their  kings;  thou  alone 
Art  a  wife — yet  a  widow  withal. 
Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  tjie  once  proud  people  of  Banba ! 
The  high  house  of  O'Neill 

Is  gone  down  to  the  dust, 
The  O'Brien  is  clanless  and  banned; 
And  the  steel,  the  red  steel, 

May  no  more  be  the  trust 

Of  the  faithful  and  brave  in  the  land ! 

Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba ! 
True,  alas!     Wrong  and  wrath 

Were  of  old  all  too  rife, 

Deeds  were  done  which  no  good  man  admires; 
And,  perchance,  Heaven  hath 
Chastened  us  for  the  strife 
And  the  blood-shedding  ways  of  our  sires ! 
Alas,  alas,  and  alas, 
For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba ! 


JAMES  CLARENCE   MANGAN. 

But,  no  more!     This  our  doom, 

While  our  hearts  yet  are  warm, 
Let  us  not  over-weakly  deplore ! 
For  the  hour  soon  may  loom 

When  the  Lord's  mighty  hand 
Shall  be  raised  for  our  rescue  once  more ! 

And  our  grief  shall  be  turned  into  joy 
For  the  still  proud  people  of  Banba! 

THE   TIME   OF  THE  BARMECIDES, 

(Translated  from  the  Arabic.) 

MY  eyes  are  tilm'd,  my  beard  is  gray, 

I  am  bow'd  with  the  weight  of  years; 
I  would  I  were  stretched  in  my  bed  of  clay, 

With  my  long  lost  youth's  compeers! 
For  back  to  the  Past,  tho'  the  thought  brings  woe, 

My  memory  ever  glides 
To  the  old,  old  time  long,  long  ago, 

The  time  of  the  Barmecides 
To  the  old,  old  time  long,  long  ago, 

The  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

Then  Youth  was  mine,  and  a  fierce  wild  will, 

And  an  iron  arm  in  war, 
And  a  fleet  foot  high  upon  Ishkar's  hill, 

When  the  watch-lights  glimmer'd  afar; 
And  a  barb  as  fiery  as*any  I  know 

That  Khoord  or  Beddaween  rides, 
Ere  my  friends  lay  low — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 
Ere  my  friends  lay  low — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 


308  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

One  golden  goblet  illumed  my  board, 

One  silver  dish  was  there ; 
At  hand  my  tried  Karamanian  sword 

Lay  always  bright  and  bare. 
For  those  were  the  days  when  the  angry  blow 

Supplanted  the  word  that  chides — 
When  hearts  could  glow — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides; 
When  hearts  could  glow — long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

Through  city  and  desert  my  mates  and  I 

Were  free  to  rove  and  roam, 
Our  diaper 'd  canopy  the  deep  of  the  sky, 

Or  the  roof  of  the  palace  dome — 
Oh!  ours  was  that  vivid  life,  to  and  fro, 

Which  only  sloth  derides — 
Men  spent  Life  so,  long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 
Men  spent  Life  so,  long,  long  ago, 

In  the  time  of  the  Barmecides. 

I  see  rich  Bagdad  once  again, 

With  its  turrets  of  Moorish  mould, 
And  the  Khalif  s  twice  five  hundred  men 

Whose  binishes  flamed  with  gold ; 
I  call  up  many  a  gorgeous  show 

Which  the  pall  of  Oblivien  hides — 
All  pass'd  like  snow,  long,  long  ago, 

With  the  time  of  the  Barmecides; 
All  pass'd  like  snow,  long,  long  ago, 

With  the  time  of  the  Barmecides! 


JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN.  309 

But  mine  eye  is  dim,  and  my  beard  is  gray, 

And  I  bend  with  the  weight  of  years — 
May  I  soon  go  down  to  the  house  of  clay 

Where  slumber  my  Youth's  compeers! 
For  with  them  and  the  Past,  though  the  thought  wakes  woe, 

My  memory  ever  abides;  / 

And  I  mourn  for  the  times  gone  long  ago, 

For  the  times  of  the  Barmecides ! 
I  mourn  for  the  times  gone  long  ago, 

For  the  times  of  the  Barmecides ! 

THE    POET'S    PREACHING. 

(From  the  German  of  Sails  Seewis.) 

SEE  how  the  day  beameth  brightly  before  us! 

Blue  is  the  firmament,  green  is  the  earth — 
Grief  hath  no  voice  in  the  universe-chorus — 

Nature  is  ringing  with  music  and  mirth. 
Lift  up  the  looks  that  are  sinking  in  sadness — 

Gaze!  and  if  Beauty  can  capture  thy  soul, 
Virtue  herself  will  allure  thee  to  gladness — 

Gladness,  Philosophy's  guerdon  and  goal. 

• 
Enter  the  treasuries  Pleasure  uncloses — 

List!  how  she  thrills  in  the  nightingale's  lay! 
Breathe!  she  is  wafting  thee  sweets  from  the  roses; 

Feel !  she  is  cool  in  the  rivulet's  play ; 
Taste !  from  the  grape  and  the  nectarine  gushing 

Flows  the  red  rill  in  the  beams  of  the  sun — 
Green  in  the  hills,  in  the  flower  groves  blushing, 

Look !  she  is  always  and  everywhere  one. 


310  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Banish,  then,  mourner,  the  tears  that  are  trickling 

Over  the  cheeks  that  should  rosily  bloom; 
Why  should  a  man,  like  a  girl  or  a  sick  ling, 

Suffer  his  lamp  to  be  quenched  in  the  tomb  ? 
Still  may  we  battle  for  Goodness  and  Beauty; 

Still  hath  Philanthropy  much  to  essay: 
Glory  rewards  the  fulfillment  of  Duty; 

Rest  will  pavilion  the  end  of  our  way. 

What,  though  corroding  and  multiplied  sorrows, 

Legion-like,  darken  this  planet  of  ours, 
Hope  is  a  balsam  the  wounded  heart  borrows 

Ever  when  Anguish  has  palsied  its  powers; 
Wherefore,  though  Fate  played  the  part  of  a  traitor, 

Soar  o'er  the  stars  on  the  pinions  of  Hope, 
Fearlessly  certain  that  sooner  or  later 

Over  the  stars  thy  desires  shall  have  scope. 

Look  round  about  on  the  face  of  Creation ; 

Still  is  GOD'S  Earth  undistorted  and  bright; 
Comfort  the  captives  to  long  tribulation, 

Thus  shalt  thou  reap  the  more  perfect  delight. 
Love! — but  if  Love  be  a  hallowed  emotion, 

Purity  only  its  rapture  should  share; 
Love,  then,  with  willing  and  deathless  "emotion 

All  that  is  just  and  exalted  and  fair. 

Act! — for  in  Action  are  Wisdom  and  Glory. 

Fame,  Immortality — these  are  its  crown; 
Wouldst  thou  illumine  the  tablets  of  stoiy, 

Build  on  ACHIEVEMENTS  thy  Dome  of  Renown. 


JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN.  311 

Honor  and  Feeling  were  giv'n  thee  to  cherish, 
Cherish  them,  then,  though  all  else  should  decay, 

Landmarks  be  these  that  are  never  to  perish, 
Stars  that  will  shine  on  thy  duskiest  clay. 

Courage! — Disaster  and  Peril  once  over, 

Freshen  the  spirit  as  showers  the  grove, 
O'er  the  dim  graves  that  the  cypresses  cover 

Soon  the  Forget-me-not  rises  in  love. 
Courage,  then,  friends!     Though  the  universe  crumble , 

Innocence,  dreadless  of  danger  beneath, 
Patient  and  trustful  and  joyous  and  humble, 

Smiles  through  the  ruin  on  Darkness  and  Death. 

TO  JOSEPH   BRENNAN. 

BALLAD. 

FRIEND  and  brother,  and  yet  more  than  brother, 
Thou ,  endow'd  with  all  of  Shelley's  soul ! 

Thou,  whose  heart  so  burneth  for  thy  mother, 

That,  like  his,  it  may  defy  all  other 
Flames,  while  time  shall  roll! 

Thou,  of  language  bland  and  manner  meekest, 

Gentle  bearing,  yet  unswerving  will — 
Gladly,  gladly  list  I  when  thou  speakest, 
Honor'd  highly  is  the  man  thou  seekest 

To  redeem  from  ill! 

Truly  show'st  thou  me  the  one  thing  needful ! 

Thou  art  not,  nor  is  the  world  yet  blind. 
Truly  have  I  been  long  years  unheedful 
Of  the  thorns  and  tares  that  choked  the  needful 

Garden  of  my  mind ! 


312  IRISH  POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Thorns  and  tares,  which  rose  in  rank  profusion 

Round  my  scanty  fruitage  and  my  flowers, 
Till  I  almost  deemed  it  self-delusion, 
Any  attempt  or  glance  at  their  extrusion 
From  their  midnight  bowers. 

Dream  and  waking  life  have  now  been  blended 

Long  time  in  the  caverns  of  my  soul — 
Oft  in  daylight  have  my  steps  descended 
Down  to  that  dusk  realm  where  all  is  ended, 
Save  remed'less  dole  I 

Oft,  with  tears,  I  have  groan'd  to  God  for  pity — 
Oft  gone  wandering  till  my  way  grew  dim — 

Oft  sung  unto  Him  a  prayerful  ditty — 

Oft,  all  lonely  in  this  throngful  city, 
Raised  my  soul  to  Him ! 

And  from  path  to  path  His  mercy  tracked  me — 

From  many  a  peril  snatcned  He  rne ; 
When  false  friendship  pursued,  betray 'd,  attacked  me, 
When  gloom  overdark'd  and  sickness  rack'd  me, 

He  was  by  to  save  and  free ! 

Friend !  thou  warnest  me  in  truly  noble 

Thoughts  and  phrases !     I  will  heed  thee  well- 
Well  will  I  obey  thy  mystic  double 
Counsel,  through  all  scenes  of  woe  and  trouble, 
As  a  magic  spell ! 

Yes!  to  live  a  bard,  in  thought  and  feeling! 

Yes !  to  act  my  rhyme ,  by  self-restraint — 
This  is  truth's,  is  reason's  deep  revealing, 
Unto  me  from  thee,  as  God's  to  a  kneeling 

And  entranced  saint ! 


wn^ 

JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN.  313 

Fare  thee  well !  we  now  know  each  the  other, 
Each  has  struck  the  other's  inmost  chords. 

Fare  thee  well,  my  friend  and  more  than  brother, 

And  may  scorn  pursue  me  if  I  smother 
In  my  soul  thy  words ! 

IRELAND  UNDER  IRISH  RULE. 

(From  the  Irish.) 

I  FOUND  in  Innisfail  the  fair, 

In  Ireland,  while  in  exile  there, 

Women  of  worth,  both  grave  and  gay  men, 

Many  clerics  and  many  laymen. 

I  travelled  its  fruitful  provinces  round, 
And  in  every  one  of  the  five  I  found , 
Alike  in  church  and  in  palace  hall, 
Abundant  apparel  and  food  for  all. 

Gold  and  silver  I  found,  and  money, 
Plenty  of  wheat  and  plenty  of  honey, 
I  found  God's  people  rich  in  pity, 
Found  many  a  feast  and  many  a  city. 

I  also  found  in  Armagh  the  Splendid , 
Meekness,  wisdom,  and  prudence  blended, 
Fasting,  as  Christ  hath  recommended, 
And  noble  councillors  untranscended. 


I  found,  besides,  from  Ara  to  Glea, 
In  the  broad  rich  country  of  Ossorie, 
Sweet  fruits,  good  laws  for  all  and  each, 
Great  chess-players,  men  of  truthful  speech. 


314  IKISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

I  found  in  Heath's  fair  principality, 
Virtue,  vigor,  and  hospitality; 
Candor,  joy  fulness,  bravery,  purity, 
Ireland's  bulwark  and  security. 

I  found  strict  morals  in  age  and  youth, 
I  found  historians  recording  truth; 
The  things  I  sing  of  in  verse  unsmooth, 
I  found  them  all — I  have  written  sooth. 


O  MARIA,   REGINA   MISERICORDLE ! 

THERE  lived  a  knight  long  years  ago, 
Proud,  carnal,  vain,  devotionless. 
Of  God  above,  or  Hell  below, 

He  took  no  thought,  but,  undisrnay'd, 

Pursued  his  course  of  wickedness. 
His  heart  was  rock ;  he  never  pray'd 
To  be  forgiven  for  all  his  treasons; 
He  only  said  at  certain  seasons, 
"  O  Mary,  Queen  of  Mercy!" 

Years  roll'd,  and  found  him  still  the  same, 
Still  draining  Pleasure's  poison-bowl; 
Yet  felt  he  now  and  then  some  shame; 
The  torment  of  the  Undying  Worm 

At  whiles  woke  in  his  trembling  soul; 
And  then,  though  powerless  to  reform, 

Would  he,  in  hope  to  appease  that  sternest 
Avenger,  cry,  and  more  in  earnest, 
"  O  Mary,  Queen  of  Mercy!" 


JAMES  CLARENCE   MANGAN.  315 

At  last  Youth's  riotous  time  was  gone, 
And  loathing  now  came  after  sin; 
With  locks  yet  brown  he  felt  as  one 
Grown  gray  at  heart;  and  oft  with  tears 

He  tried,  but  all  in  vain,  to  win 
From  the  dark  desert  of  his  years 

One  flower  of  hope;  yet,  morn  and  e'ening, 
He  still  cried,  but  with  deeper  meaning, 
"  O  Mary,  Queen  of  Mercy!" 

A  happier  mind,  a  holier  mood, 

A  purer  spirit,  ruled  him  now; 
No  more  in  thrall  to  flesh  and  blood, 
He  took  a  pilgrim-staff  in  hand, 

And,  under  a  religious  vow, 
Travel'd  his  way  to  Pommerland. 
There  enter'd  he  an  humble  cloister, 
Exclaiming,  while  his  eyes  grew  moister, 
"  O  Mary,  Queen  of  Mercy!" 

Here,  shorn  and  cowl'd,  he  laid  his  cares 

Aside ,  and  wrought  for  God  alone ; 
Albeit  he  sang  no  choral  prayers, 

Nor  Matin  hymn  nor  Laud  could  learn, 

He  mortified  his  flesh  to  stone. 
For  him  no  penance  was  too  stern ; 
And  often  pray'd  he  on  his  lonely 
Cell-couch  at  night,  but  still  said  only, 
"  O  Mary,  Queen  of  Mercy!" 


316  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

And  thus  he  lived  long,  long;  and,  when 

God's  angels  called  him,  thus  he  died. 
Confession  made  he  none  to  men, 

Yet,  when  they  anointed  him  with  oil 

He  seem'd  already  glorified; 
His  penances,  his  tears,  his  toil 

Were  past,  and  now,  with  passionate  sighing, 
Praise  thus  broke  from  his  lips  while  dying, 
"  O  Mary,  Queen  of  Mercy!" 

They  buried  him  with  Mass  and  song 

Aneath  a  little  knoll  so  green; 
But,  lo!  a  wonder  sight!     Ere  long 

'Rase,  blooming,  from  that  verdant  mound, 

The  fairest  lily  ever  seen; 
And,  on  its  petal-edges  round, 

Relieving  their  translucent  whiteness, 
Did  shine  these  words  in  gold-hued  brightness: 
"  O  Mary,  Queen  of  Mercy!" 

And,  would  God's  angels  give  thee  power, 

Thou,  dearest  reader,  might  behold 
The  fairness  of  this  holy  flower, 

Up-springing  from  the  dead  man's  heart 
In  tremulous  threads  of  light  and  gold ; 
Then  wouldst  thou  choose  the  better  part ! 
And  thenceforth  flee  Sin's  foul  suggestions; 
Thy  sole  response  to  mocking  questions, 
"  O  Mary,  Queen  of  Mercy!" 


REV.  FATHER  RYAN 

THE    POET-PRIEST    OF    THE    SOUTH. 

jHE  first  collection  of  Father  Ryan's  Poems, 
made  under  his  own  supervision,  contains  a 
preface,  in  which  the  author  says: 

' '  These  verses  (which  some  friends  call  by  the  higher  title  of 
Poems— to  which  appellation  the  author  objects)  were  written 
at  random — off  and  on,  here,  there,  everywhere — just  when  the 
mood  came,  with  little  of  study  and  less  of  art,  and  always  in  a 
hurry. 

"Hence  they  are  incomplete  in  finish  as  the  author  is;  though 
he  thinks  they  are  true  in  tone.  His  feet  know  more  about 
the  humble  steps  that  lead  up  to  the  Altar  and  its  Mysteries 
than  of  the  steps  that  lead  up  to  Parnassus  and  the  home  of  the 
Muses.  And  souls  were  always  more  to  him  than  songs." 

This  Southern  Celt  was  as  modest  in  his  estima- 
tion of  self  as  he  was  truly  gifted.  Though  he  knew 
right  well  and  loved  the  "  steps  that  led  up  to  the 
Altar,"  and  served  the  Altar  faithfully,  the  ascent  to 
Parnassus  was  to  him  no  difficult  task.  Yet  would 
he  sign  himself  the  least  of  all  the  bards.  It  would 
seem  that  in  a  note  to  Longfellow  he  made  use  of 
language  somewhat  similar,  as  we  find  reference 

(317) 


IKISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 


made  to  it  in  the  following  extract  of  a  letter  written 
to  Father  Ryan  by  the  Cambridge  Poet: 


v'-V 


M/^^PN 


"  CAMBKIDGE,  Dec.  14,  1880. 

«  *  *  *  j  have  read  enough  of  your  poetiy  to  see  the 
fervor  of  feeling  and  expression  with  which  you  write,  and  the 
melody  of  the  versification. 

"Of  course,  you  will  hardly  expect  me  to  sympathize  with 
all  the  'verses  connected  with  the  war.'  Yet,  in  some  of 
them,  I  recognize  a  profound  pathos  and  the  infinite  pity  of  it 
all.  *  *  * 


KEV.  FATHER   RYAN.  319 

"  P.  S.— When  you  call  yourself  '  the  last  and  least  of  those 
who  rhyme,'  you  remind  me  of  the  graceful  lines  of  Catullus  to 
Cicero: 

"  '  Gratias  tibi  maximas  Catullus 
Agit,  pessimus  omnium  poeta: 
Tanto  pessimus  omnium  poeta, 
Quanto  tu  optimus  omnium  patronus.'* 

"  *  Last  and  least '  can  no  more  be  applied  to  you  than  '  pes- 
simus' to  Catullus." 

In  this  comparison  a  high  compliment  is  paid  to 
the  Poet-Priest;  and  coming  from  such  a  distin- 
guished personage  as  Longfellow  it  was  certainly 
appreciated. 

Late  in  the  Fall  of  1880  Father  Ryan  gave  read- 
ings from  his  own  poems  in  the  Academy  of  Music, 
Baltimore,  Md.  The  proceeds  of  these  public  read- 
ings were  destined  to  found  a  Ryan  Medal  in  the 
Loyola  College  of  that  city,  and  Rev.  E.  A.  McGurk, 
S.  J.,  presided  on  the  occasion.  The  audience  was 
made  up  of  the  most  fashionable  and  cultured  citi- 
zens of  Maryland,  who  were  anxious  to  hear  the 
Poet  of  their  "  Lost  Cause,"  and  to  pay  to  him  the 
homage  of  their  appreciation. 

Before  reading  "A  Land  Without  Ruins/' which 
formed  one  of  his  selections  on  that  evening,  he  pre- 


'  Catullus  sends  his  thanks  to  thee, 

With  most  sincere  regards — 
Thou  greatest  of  all  Patrons,  as  he 
Is  least  of  all  the  bards. 


320  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

faced  it  with  a  few  words.    The  lines  were  applicable 
to  Ireland,  Poland  and  the  South: 

' '  A  land  without  ruins  is  a  land  without  memories ;  a  land 
without  memories  is  a  land  without  a  history.  A  land  that 
wears  a  laurel  crown  may  be  fair  to  see ;  but  twine  a  few  sad 
cypress  leaves  around  the  brow  of  any  land,  and,  be  that  land 
barren,  beautiless  and  bleak,  it  becomes  lovely  in  its  consecrated 
coronet  of  sorrow,  and  it  wins  the  sympathy  of  the  heart  and 
of  history.  Crowns  of  roses  fade;  crowns  of  thorns  endure. 
Calvaries  and  crucifixions  take  deepest  hold  of  humanity ;  the 
triumphs  of  might  are  transient;  they  pass  and  are  forgotten; 
the  sufferings  of  right  are  graven  deepest  on  the  chronicle  of 
nations. " 

A  touching  incident,  in  which  originated  the 
poem  entitled  "  A  Death,"  was  thus  related  by  him 
during  the  course  of  his  readings: 

' '  Some  years  ago  the  small-pox  came  to  Mobile  and  raged  as 
an  epidemic.  A  great  many  people  died.  I  attended  many. 
I  was  sent  for  one  evening  late,  by  an  outcast  of  the  city,  the 
leader  of  the  unfortunate  class  to  which  she  belonged.  Noted 
for  her  beauty,  she  had  fallen  away,  drifted  away  from  the 
paths  of  virtue,  lured  by  the  wiles  of  others.  I  attended  her 
for  thirteen  days,  and  until  she  died  a  beautiful  death.  The 
very  words  I 'use  in  the  poem  or  rhyme  I  am  about  to  read  are 
the  words  she  used  to  me." 

Father  Ryan  here  read  his  charming  lines  "  A 
Death."  The  words  to  which  he  alluded  are  thus 
expressed  in  his  verses: 


REV.  FATHER   RYAN.  321 

I  have  wandered  too  far,  far  away, 
Oh!  would  that  my  mother  were  here; 
Is  God  like  a  mother?    Has  he 
Any  love  for  a  sinner  like  me  ? 

The  recitation  deeply  affected  the  audience.  As 
an  introduction  to  the  beautiful  poem  which  came 
next  in  order  the  gifted  poet  said : 

' '  There  came  a  time  when  the  yellow  fever  swept  the  South ; 
the  politicians  were  at  that  time  wrangling.  The  sympathy  of 
the  North  came  down  with  sandals  of  mercy  on  her  feet  to  the 
poor  fever-stricken  South,  and  met  her  in  the  sanctuary  of  her 
deepest  woe.  The  hands  of  the  North  and  South  were  thus 
clasped  once  more." 

Under  these  circumstances  it  was  that  Father  Ryan 
wrote  "  Reunited/'  which  he  then  read  with  fine 
effect.  So  genuinely  hearty  was  the  reception  given 
Father  Ryan  on  this  occasion  by  the  best  families  of 
the  South  that  the  writer,  who  had  the  privilege  of 
being  one  of  the  audience  could  not  help  consider- 
ing, contrary  to  the  dictum  of  scripture,  that  this 
man  was  a  "  prophet  in  his  own  country." 

The  South  may  be  called  "  his  own  country,"  as  he 
resided  there  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 

Father  Ryan  was  born  in  Limerick,  Ireland,  in 
April,  1840,  and  baptized  in  the  old  church  where 
the  Florentine  Campanaro  discovered  hilg  lost  bells, 
as  he  sailed  up  the  Shannon  on  a  fine  summer 

22 


322  IKISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

evening  long  ago.  While  Abram  was  yet  a  child  his 
parents  came  to  the  United  States  and  settled  at 
Norfolk,  Virginia.  By  industry  and  tact  they  sur- 
rounded their  new  home  with  all  the  ordinary  com- 
forts of  life,  and  devoted  not  a  little  of  their  atten- 
tion to  the  education  of  the  future  poet  and  his  two 
brothers.  For  more  than  two  centuries  the  family 
to  which  Mr.  Kyan  belonged  had  given  scholarly  and 
zealous  priests  to  the  Irish  Church,  and  his  ambition, 
which  harmonized  with  the  fondest  wish  of  his  pious 
wife,  was  to  devote  one  of  his  sons,  at  least,  to  the 
service  of  the  grand  old  Church  in  his  adopted  land. 
With  this  end  in  view,  after  having  completed  his 
primary  studies  at  home,  Abram  was  sent  to  St. 
Vincent's  College,  Cape  Girardeau,  Mo.,  and  placed 
under  the  watchful  care  of  the  Vincentian  Fathers, 
by  whom  he  was  educated  and  prepared  for  the 
sacred  ministry.  In  college  he  gave  promise  of  a 
brilliant  future,  and  his  Rev.  Professors  spared  no 
labor  in  drawing  out  and  cultivating  the  talents  he 
possessed.  It  is  a  doctrine,  practiced  everywhere 
among  the  members  of  this  noble  Order,  never  to 
use  two  words  where  one  suffices,  nor  yet  a  long 
word  where  a  short  one  can  be  made  to  answer  the 
purpose.  Hence  their  style  is  remarkably  expres- 
sive, terse  and  energetic.  Young  Ryan,  given  to 
literary  composition  at  an  early  age,  very  naturally 


KEY.  FATHER   RYAN.  323 

adopted  this  principle  of  his  devoted  teachers,  and, 
as  a  consequence,  his  style  is  direct,  precise  and 
without  redundancy. 

.After  his  ordination,  the  Rev.  A.  J.  Ryan  was 
appointed  to  missionary  duty  at  Knoxville,  Tenn., 
where  he  endeared  himself  to  all  classes  of  society, 
but  especially  to  the  poor. 

During  the  first  year  of  the  Civil  War  his  brother 
David,  who  was  then  attending  college,  joined  the 
Confederate  ranks.  He  possessed  a  large  share  of 
the  priest's  poetic  genius,  and  his  sympathy  with  the 
South  was  equally  ardent  and  strong. 

This  brother,  who  in  a  short  time  rose  to  the 
command  of  a  company,  was  killed  in  one  of  the 
early  engagements.  The  event  is  commemorated  in 
the  following  tender,  tearful  lines: 


IN   MEMORY  OF  MY  BROTHER. 

YOUNG  as  the  youngest  who  donned  the  gray, 

True  as  the  truest  that  wore  it , 
Brave  as  the  bravest  he  marched  away 
(Hot  tears  on  the  cheeks  of  his  mother  lay), 
Triumphant  waved  our  flag  one  day — 
He  fell  in  the  front  before  it. 


324  IPJSH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

Firm  as  the  firmest  where  duty  led, 

He  hurried  without  a  falter; 
Bold  as  the  boldest  he  fought  and  bled, 
And  the  day  was  won — but  the  field  was  red — 
And  the  blood  of  his  fresh  young  heart  was  shed 

On  his  country's  hallowed  altar. 

On  the  trampled  breast  of  the  battle  plain, 

Where  the  foremost  ranks  had  wrestled, 

On  his  pale,  pure  face  not  a  mark  of  pain 

(His  mother  dreams  they  will  meet  again) , 

The  fairest  form  amid  all  the  slain, 
Like  a  child  asleep  he  nestled. 

In  the  solemn  shades  of  the  wood  that  swept 

The  field  where  his  comrades  found  him, 

They  buried  him  there — and  the  big  tears  crept 

Into  strong  men's  eyes  that  had  seldom  wept. 

(His  mother-— God  pity  her! — smiled  and  slept, 
Dreaming  her  arms  were  around  him). 

A  grave  in  the  woods  with  the  grass  o'ergrown, 

A  grave  in  the  heart  of  his  mother — 
His  clay  in  the  one  lies  lifeless  and  lone ; 
There  is  not  a  name,  there  is  not  a  stone, 
And  only  the  voice  of  the  wind  maketh  moan 
O'er  the  grave  where  never  a  flower  is  strewn, 
But — his  memory  lives  in  the  other. 

The  Mobile  Register  published  this    eulogium  of 
the  deceased  poet: 

' '  No  man  of  genius  ever  shrank  with  greater  dread  from  the 
glare  of  renown.     From  his  early  manhood  he  has  worn  the 


KEY.  FATHER  RYAN.  325 

vestments  of  a  priest,  and  in  the  solemn  pursuits  of  his  office 
he  has  spent  the  power  of  his  life,  and  through  many  years  of 
feebleness  and  pain — 

To  the  higher  shrine  of  love  divine 

His  lowly  feet  have  trod; 
He  wants  no  fame ,  no  other  name 

Than  this — a  priest  of  God. 

"  But  his  fame  is  not  his  own,  it  is  his  country's;  and  his 
name  fills  a  page  in  her  history  to  be  cherished  by  her  people  for 
ever. 

' <  When  the  camp-fires  of  the  war  between  the  States  began 
to  cast  their  lurid  glare  upon  the  passions  of  a  people  for  the 
first  time  they  profoundly  stirred  Abram  J.  Ryan,  then  a  frail 
and  slender  youth,  who  had  just  entered  the  priesthood  of  the 
Catholic  Church.  His  brother,  Captain  David  Ryan,  was 
among  the  first  to  enter  the  Army  of  the  Confederates,  a  hope- 
ful young  soldier;  and  in  a  little  while  the  young  priest  was 
found  among  the  Southern  host  to  administer  where  he  could 
the  consolations  of  religion  to  the  wounded  and  dying. 

' '  From  the  stirring  scenes  of  sacrifice  and  slaughter  which  a 
civil  war  can  alone  unfold  Father  Ryan  received  his  first  pro- 
found impressions.  The  cradle  of  his  poetic  genius  was  rocked 
upon  the  stormy  waves  of  revolution/' 

Then  it  was  that  the  sweet,  strong  voice  of  the 
Poet-Priest  was  heard  throughout  the  land,  cheering 
on  the  serried  hosts  and  inspiring  the  champions  of 
a  cause  in  which  he  sincerely  believed  to  deeds  of 
greater  valor. 

What  could  be  more  war-inspiring  than  these  lines 
from  the  "  Sword  of  Lee!-" 


326  IRISH  POETS   AND   NOVELISTS' 

i 

Out  of  its  scabbard — never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free, 
Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  a  cause  so  grand, 

Nor  cause  a  chief  like  Lee. 

11  The  Conquered  Banner/'  which  is  included  in 
the  selections  we  have  made  from  the  poems  of  our 
author,  has  taken  its  place  among  the  greatest 
lyrics  of  our  language,  and  there  it  will  remain  as 
long  as  English  is  spoken. 

"  Their  Story  Runneth  Thus,"  by  far  his  longest 
poem,  is  not  without  defects,  but  it  has  many  fine 
qualities  which  should  have  won  for  it  a  wider 
recognition  than  it  has  ever  received.  His  descrip- 
tion of  a  nun  in  this  plaintive  poem  is  poetically 
beautiful: 

As  silent  as  a  star-gleam  came  a  nun, 

In  answer  to  his  summons  at  the  gate; 

Her  face  was  like  the  picture  of  a  saint, 

Or  like,  an  angel's  smile — her  down-cast  eyes 

Were  like  a  half -closed  tabernacle,  where 

God's  presence  glowed;  her  lips  were  pale  and  worn 

By  ceaseless  prayer;  and  when  she  spoke 

And  bade  him  enter,  'twas  in  such  a  tone 

As  only  voices  own  which  day  and  night 

Sing  hymns  to  God. 

In  answer  to  the  question  "  Who  sent  you  here, 
my  child?"  put  by  the  Superioress  of  the  convent 


REV.  FATHER   RYAN.  327 

where  Ethel  sought  admission,  the  young  postulant 
is  made  to  say: 

"  A  youthful  Christ,"  she  said,— 
"  Who,  had  he  lived  in  those  far  days  of  Christ, 
Would  have  been  His  beloved  Disciple,  sure, — 
Would  have  been  His  own  gentle  John;  and  would 
Have  leaned,  on  Thursday  night,  upon  his  breast, 
And  stood,  on  Friday  eve,  beneath  His  cross 
To  take  His  mother  from  Him  when  He  died. 
He  sent  me  here, — he  said  the  word  last  night 
In  my  own  garden, — this  the  word  he  said — 
Oh!  had  you  heard  him  whisper: — '  Ethel,  dear! 
Your  heart  was  born  with  veil  of  virgin  on — 
I  hear  it  rustle  eveiy  time  we  meet, 
In  all  your  words  and  smiles; — and  when  you  weep 
I  hear  it  rustle  more.     Go — wear  your  veil — 
And  outward  be  what  inwardly  thou  art, 
And  hast  been  from  the  first.     And,  Ethel,  list: 
My  heart  was  born  with  priestly  vestments  on, 
And  at  Dream- Altars  I  have  ofttimes  stood, 
And  said  such  sweet  Dream-Masses  in  my  sleep — 
And  when  I  lifted  up  a  white  Dream-Host, 
A  silver  Dream-Bell  rang — and  angels  knelt, 
Or  seemed  to  kneel,  in  worship.     Ethel,  say — 
Thou  wouldst  not  take  the  vestments  from  my  heart  „ 
Nor  more  than  I  would  tear  the  veil  from  thine. 
My  vested  and  thy  veiled  heart  part  to-night 
To  climb  our  Calvary  and  to  meet  in  God — 
And  this,  fair  Ethel,  is  Gethsemane.'  " 


328  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Unlike  most  poets,  Father  Ryan  loved  the  Cross 
better  than  the  Crown,  and  his  sympathies  were 
always  with  the  weak  and  the  oppressed.  After  the 
war  he  moved  to  Mobile,  where  he  enjoyed  the  con- 
stant friendship  of  the  Right  Rev.  Bishop  Quinlan, 
who  admired  both  the  talents  of  the  poet  and  the 
zeal  of  the  priest. 

In  1880,  or  thereabout,  he  was  induced  by  a  bril- 
liant young  lawyer  of  Mobile  named  Harris  Taylor 
to  collect  and  publish  his  poems  in  book  form.  This 
was  done  at  Mr.  Taylor's  expense,  and  the  book 
proved  popular  immediately  on  issuing  from  the 
press.  So  great  a  favorite  did  it  become  that  in  five 
years  ten  different  editions  were  struck  off  to  supply 
the  public  demand. 

At  this  time  he  went  on  his  lecturing  tour  through 
the  North,  where  he  was  received  with  remarkable 
cordiality,  and  thousands  thronged  to  hear  him. 
Every  one  was  anxious,  then,  to  listen  to  his  brilliant 
lectures  and  "  touch  the  hem"  of  the  poet's  garment. 

Father  Ryan  led  a  busy  and  laborious  life,  and  the 
constant  strain  began  to  tell  upon  his  health  before 
he  had  reached  his  forty-fifth  year. 

One  month  before  his  death  he  went  to  the  Monas- 
tery of  St.  Boniface,  Louisville,  Kentucky,  with  the 
intention  of  making  his  annual  retreat,  after  which 
he  proposed  to  finish  in  the  retirement  of  that  place 
his  "  Life  of  Christ." 


REV.  FATHER   RYAN.  329 

But  his  work  was  done,  and  the  Master  called  him 
home  on  the  22d  of  April,  1880,  before  he  had  reached 
the  age  of  fifty.  His  body  lay  in  state  at  the 
Franciscan  Monastery  for  two  days.  On  the  24th 
the  ex-Confederate  soldiers  of  the  city  attended  in  a 
body  his  Requiem  Mass  in  the  Church  of  St.  Boni- 
face, and  a  funeral  escort,  consisting  of  distinguished 
ex-Confederate  officers,  Judges  of  the  United  States 
and  State  Courts,  conducted  his  remains  to  the 
depot,  whence  they  were  conveyed  to  Mobile  for  in- 
terment. In  the  sad  funeral  procession  a  floral 
Cross  and  Crown  were  borne,  bearing  the  inscrip- 
tion: 

* '  Love  and  sympathy  of  the  ox-confederate  soldiers  of  Louis- 
ville." 

Never  was  poet  more  loved  and  honored  in  any 
country  than  this  sweet  singer  in  his  own  Sunny 
Southland. 

He  was  forty-six  years  at  the  time  of  his  death, 
and  had  lived  nearly  all  his  years  "  south  of  Mason 
and  Dixon's  line."  As  a  poet  all  concede  to  him  an 
exalted  place.  Miss  Early,  in  her  "  Songs  of  the 
South,"  has  this  to  say: 

'  *  In  my  estimation  the  two  finest  songs  called  forth  by  the 
war  were  "  The  Conquered  Banner"  and  "  All  Quiet  Along  the 
Potomac  To-night,"  the  former  by  Father  Ryan  and  the  latter 
by  Lamar  Fontaine.  Both  these  evince  genuine  talent." 


330  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

As  an  orator  his  reputation  is  also  an  enviable  one. 
General  Gordon,  in  a  speech  delivered  at  New 
Orleans  on  the  occasion  of  unveiling  Sergeant  Jas- 
per's monument,  styled  Father  Ryan  "the  rainbow 
of  poesy  and  the  thunderbolt  of  oratory." 

Whatever  he  may  have  been  before,  since  the  close 
of  the  civil  war  the  poet  of  the  "  Lost  Cause"  has  been 
socially,  nearly  at  all  times,  a  sad  and  silent  man. 
He  seldom  gave  expression  to  his  sorrows,  except  in 
verse,  and  lived  as  much  as  possible  alone.  No 
doubt  he  thought  and  felt  much  more  than  pen  or 
voice  ever  made  manifest.  Gentleness  characterized 
his  every  act,  and  he  was  exceedingly  fond  of  chil- 
dren. 

The  end  has  crowned  his  labors;  but  his  memory 
shall  be  as  lasting  as  that  of  the  cause  which  he 
immortalized  in  song. 

THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. 

FUEL  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary; 
'Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary; 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it; 

Furl  it,  hide  it — let  it  rest! 


REV.  FATHER   RYAN.  331 

Take  that  Banner  down!  'tis  tattered; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh!  rtis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it; 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it; 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Furl  that  Banner !  furl  it  sadly ! 
Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave; 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave ! 

Furl  it!  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low; 
And  that  Banner — it  is  trailing! 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it! 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it ! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it! 
But,  oh!  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now,  who  fold  and  furl  it  so. 


332  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Furl  that  Banner!     True,  'tis  goiy, 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust; 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages — 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages, 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly! 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy — 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not — unfold  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead ! 


LINES— 1875. 

"Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh." — Letter  to  Father  Ryan. 

€f 0  down  where  the  wavelets  are  kissing  the  shore , 

And  ask  of  them  why  do  they  sigh  ? 
The  Poet's  have  asked  them  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
But  they're  kissing  the  shore  as  they  kissed  it  before, 
And  they're  sighing  to-day  and  they'll  sigh  evermore. 

Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  will  not  reply; 
•    But  they'll  sigh  on  forever  and  never  tell  why ! 

"  Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh?" 

The  waves  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall  I. 


REV.  FATHER   RYAN.  333 

Go  stand  on  the  beach  of  the  blue,  boundless  deep, 

When  the  night  stars  are  gleaming  on  high, 
And  hear  how  the  billows  are  moaning  in  sleep, 
On  the  low  lying  strand  by  the  surge-beaten  steep. 
They're  moaning  forever  wherever  they  sweep. 

Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  never  reply; 

They  moan,  and  so  sadly,  but  will  not  tell  why? 

"  Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ?" 

The  waves  will  not  answer  you ;  neither  shall  I. 

Go  list  to  the  breeze  at  the  waning  of  day, 

When  it  passes  and  murmurs  "  good-bye" — 
The  dear  little  breeze,  how  it  wishes  to  stay 
Where  the  flowers  are  in  bloom,  where  the  singing  birds  play  t 
How  it  sighs  when  it  flies  on  its  wearisome  way ! 

Ask  it  what  ails  it:  it  will  not  reply; 

Its  voice  is  a  sad  one,  it  never  told  why. 
.    "  Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ?" 

The  breeze  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall  I. 

Go  watch  the  wild  blasts  as  they  spring  from  their  lair, 

When  the  shout  of  the  storm  rends  the  sky; 
They  rush  o'er  the  earth  and  they  ride  thro'  the  air 
And  they  blight  with  their  breath  all  the  lovely  and  fair, 
And  they  groan  like  the  ghosts  in  the  '  *  land  of  despair. " 

Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  never  reply; 

Their  voices  are  mournful,  and  they  will  not  tell  why. 
'  Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ?" 

The  blasts  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall  I. 


,334  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Go  stand  on  the  rivulet's  lily-fringed  side, 

Or  list  where  the  rivers  rush  by; 
The  streamlets  which  forest  trees  shadow  and  hide, 
And  the  rivers  that  roll  in  their  ocean  ward  tide, 
Are  moaning  forever  wherever  they  glide ; 

Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  will  not  reply; 

On— sad  voiced— they  flow,  but  they  never  tell  why. 

"  Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ?" 

Earth's  streams  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall  I. 

Go  list  to  the  voices  of  air,  earth  and  sea, 

And  the  voices  that  sound  in  the  sky; 
Their  songs  may  be  joyful  to  some,  but  to  me 
There's  a  sigh  in  each  chord  and  a  sigh  in  each  key, 
And  thousands  of  sighs  swell  their  grand  melody. 

Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  will  not  reply. 

They  sigh — sigh  forever — but  never  tell  why. 

* c  Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a  sigh  ?" 

Their  lips  will  not  answer  you;  neither  will  I. 

ERIN'S  FLAG. 

UNROLL  Erin's  flag!  fling  its  folds  to  the  breeze! 

Let  it  float  o'er  the  land,  let  it  flash  o'er  the  seas! 

Lift  it  out  of  the  dust — let  it  wave  as  of  yore, 

When  its  chiefs  with  their  clans  stood  around  it  and  swore 

That  never!  no,  never!  while  God  gave  them  life, 

And  they  had  an  arm  and  a  sword  for  the  strife, 

That  never!  no,  never!  that  banner  should  yield 

As  long  as  the  heart  of  a  Celt  was  its  shield; 

While  the  hand  of  a  Celt  had  a  weapon  to  wield, 

And  his  last  drop  of  blood  was  unshed  on  the  field. 


REV.  FATHER   RYAN.  335 

Lift  it  up!  wave  it  high'  'tis  as  bright  as  of  old! 

Not  a  stain  on  its  green,  not  a  blot  on  its  gold, 

Tho'  the  woes  and  the  wrongs  of  three  hundred  long  years 

Have  drenched  Erin's  Sunburst  with  blood  and  with  tears! 

Though  the  clouds  of  oppression  enshrined  it  in  gloom, 

And  around  it  the  thunders  of  Tyranny  boom. 

Look  aloft!  look  aloft!     Lo,  the  clouds  drifting  oy: 

There's  a  gleam  through  the  gloom,  there's  a  light  in  the  sky; 

Tis  the  Sunburst  resplendent — far,  flashing  on  high! 

Erin's  dark  night  is  waning,  her  day-dawn  is  nigh! 

Lift  it  up !  lift  it  up  I  the  old  Banner  of  Green ! 
The  blood  of  its  sons  has  but  brightened  its  sheen. 
What  though  the  tyrant  has  trampled  it  down, 
Are  its  folds  not  emblazoned  with  deeds  of  renown  ? 
What  though  for  ages  it  droops  in  the  dust, 
Shall  it  droop  thus  forever  !     No!  no!  God  is  just! 

Take  it  up!  take  it  up!  from  the  tyrant's  foul  tread, 
Let  him  tear  the  Green  Flag — we  will  snatch  its  last  shred, 
And  beneath  it  we'll  bleed  as  our  forefathers  bled, 
And  we'll  vow  by  the  dust  in  the  graves  of  our  dead, 
And  we'll  swear  by  the  blood  which  the  Briton  has  shed, 
And  we'll  vow  by  the  wrecks  which  through  Erin  he  spread, 
And  we'll  swear  by  the  thousands  who,  famished,  unfed, 
Died  down  in  the  ditches,  wild-howling  for  bread, 
And  well  vow  by  our  heroes,  whose  spirits  have  fled, 
And  we'll  swear  by  the  bones  in  each  coffinless  bed, 
That  we'll  battle  the  Briton  through  danger  and  dread; 
That  we'll  cling  to  the  cause  which  we  glory  to  wed, 
Till  the  gleam  of  our  steel  and  the  shock  of  our  lead 
Shall  prove  to  our  foe  that  we  meant  what  we  said — 
That  we'll  lift  up  the  green,  and  we'll  tear  down  the  red! 


336  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Lift  up  the  Green  Flag- '  oh '  it  wants  to  go  home , 
Full  long  has  its  lot  been  to  wander  and  roam. 
It  has  followed  the  fate  of  its  sons  o'er  the  world, 
But  its  folds,  like  their  hopes,  are  not  faded  nor  furled. 
Like  a  weary-winged  bird,  to  the  East  and  the  West, 
It  has  flitted  and  flitted;  but  it  never  shall  rest, 
Till,  pluming  its  pinions,  it  sweeps  o'er  the  main, 
And  speeds  to  the  shores  of  its  old  home  again, 
Where  its  fetterless  folds  o'er  each  mountain  and  plain 
Shall  wave  with  a  glory  that  never  shall  wane ! 

Take  it  up !  take  it  up !  bear  it  back  from  afar ! 
That  Banner  must  blaze  'mid  the  lightnings  of  war. 
Lay  your  hands  on  its  folds,  lift  your  gaze  to  the  sky, 
And  swear  that  you'll  bear  it  triumphant  or  die, 
And  shout  to  the  clans  scattered  far  o'er  the  earth 
To  join  in  the  march  to  the  land  of  their  birth. 
And  wherever  the  exiles,  'neath  heaven's  broad  dome, 
Have  been  fated  to  suffer,  to  sorrow  and  roam, 
They'll  bound  on  the  sea,  and  away  o'er  the  foam, 
They'll  sail  to  the  music  of  ' '  Home ,  Sweet  Home !" 


SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC. 

I  WALK  down  the  Valley  of  Silence- 
Down  the  dim ,  voiceless  valley — alone ! 

And  I  hear  not  the  fall  of  a  footstep 
Around  me,  save  God's  and  my  own; 

And  the  hush  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 
As  hovers  where  angels  have  flown ! 


REV.  FATHER   RYAN.  337 

Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  voices, 

Whose  music  my  heart  could  not  win; 
Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  noises 

That  fretted  my  soul  with  their  din ; 
Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  places 

Where  I  met  but  the  human— and  sin. 

I  walked  in  the  world  with  the  worldly;      . 

I  craved  what  the  world  never  gave; 
And  I  said:  "  In  the  world  each  Ideal 

That  shines  like  a  star  on  life's  wave, 
Is  wrecked  on  the  shores  of  the  Real, 

And  sleeps  like  a  dream  in  a  grave. " 

And  still  I  did  pine  for  the  Perfect, 

And  still  found  the  False  with  the  True; 

I  sought  'mid  the  Human  for  Heaven, 
But  caught  a  mere  glimpse  of  its  Blue: 

And  I  wept  when  the  clouds  of  the  Mortal 
Veiled  even  that  glimpse  from  my  view. 

And  I  toiled  on,  heart-tired  of  the  Human, 
And  I  moaned  'mid  the  mazes  of  men; 

Till  I  knelt,  long  ago,  at  an  altar 
And  I  heard  a  voice  call  me; — since  then 

I  walk  down  the  Valley  of  Silence 
That  lies  far  beyond  mortal  ken. 

Do  you  ask  what  I  found  in  the  Valley  ? 

Tis  my  Trysting  Place  with  the  Divine. 
And  I  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  Holy, 

And  above  me  a  voice  said:  "  Be  mine." 
And  there  arose  from  the  depths  of  my  spirit 

An  echo — "  My  heart  shall  be  thine." 


338  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

Do  you  ask  how  I  live  in  the  Valley  ? 

I  weep— and  I  dream — and  I  pray. 
But  my  tears  are  as  sweet  as  the  dewdrops 

That  fall  on  the  roses  of  May; 
And  my  prayer,  like  a  perfume  from  censers, 

Ascendeth  to  God  night  and  day. 

In  the  hush  of  the  Valley  of  Silence 
I  dream  all  the  songs  that  I  sing; 

And  the  music  floats  down  the  dim  Valley, 
Till  each  finds  a  word  for  a  wing, 

That  to  hearts,  like  the  Dove  of  the  Deluge, 
A  message  of  Peace  they  may  bring. 

But  far  on  the  deep  there  are  billows 
That  never  shall  break  on  the  beach ; 

And  I  have  heard  songs  in  the  silence, 
That  never  shall  float  into  speech; 

And  I  have  heard  dreams  in  the  Valley, 
Too  lofty  for  language  to  reach. 

And  I  have  seen  Thoughts  in  the  Valley — 
Ah !   me ,  how  my  spirit  was  stirred ! 

And  they  wear  holy  veils  on  their  faces, 
Their  footsteps  can  scarcely  be  heard; 

They  pass  through  the  Valley  like  Virgins, 
Too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a  word ! 

Do  you  ask  me  the  place  of  the  Valley, 
Ye  hearts  that  are  harrowed  by  Care  ? 

It  lieth  afar  between  mountains, 
And  God  and  His  angels  are  there; 

And  one  is  the  dark  mount  of  Sorrow, 
And  one  the  bright  mountain  of  Prayer! 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  McGEE 

POET,    HISTORIAN   AND    STATESMAN. 

jHE  subject  of  this  paper  was  descended  from 
a  family  remarkable  for  devotion  to  the 
cause  of  oppressed  Ireland.  His  maternal  grand- 
father took  an  active  part  in  the  rising  of  1798, 'and 
suffered  for  his  participation  in  that  movement.  On 
the  father's  side,  also,  there  were  patriots  whose 
devotion  to  the  old  land  was  tested  and  found  true. 

Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee,  the  second  son  of  James 
McGee  and  Dorcas  Catherine  Morgan,  was  born  on 
the  13th  day  of  April,  1825,  at  Carlingford,  in  the 
County  Louth.  His  mother  was  a  woman  of  educa- 
tion and  refinement,  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  her 
country,  its  music  and  its  ancient  lore.  The  lullaby 
she  chanted  over  his  cradle  thrilled  with  the  spirit 
of  "  ninety-eight,"  and  Thomas,  from  his  infancy, 
breathed  an  atmosphere  of  patriotism. 

Eight  listless  years  had  passed  over  the  future 
poet's  head,  by  the  shores  of  Carlingford  Bay,  when 
his  father,  James  McGee,  there  serving  as  a  coast- 
guard, was  transferred  to  Wexford,  whither  the 
family  accompanied  him.  Here  the  cultured  mother 
instilled  into  the  youthful  mind  of  the  bard  those 

(339) 


340 


IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 


legends  and  traditions  which  years  and  years  after- 
wards formed  the  ground-work  for  many  a  thrilling 
ballad. 

That  gentle,  loving  mother  died  while  Thomas  was 


yet  a  boy,  and  the  darling  of  her  heart  wept  over  her 
grave, 

Near  the  Selskar's  ruin'd  wall, 

as  only  poets  can  weep.  Though  dead,  her  lessons 
lived  in  his  heart  to  prompt  and  guide  him  through 
all  the  changes  of  a  busy  and  eventful  life. 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  M'GEE.  341 

Years  went  on,  and  young  McGee  was  busy  with 
the  cultivation  of  a  great  mind.  He  attended  a  day 
school  in  the  town  of  Wexford,  where  his  progress 
was  so  rapid  that  after  a  few  years  he  became  his 
own  master.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  had  read  a 
great  many  books  on  the  history  of  his  native  land. 
Poetry  was  his  chief  delight,  and,  like  Collins,  he 
was  willing  to  walk  many  a  weary  mile,  provided 
the  hope  of  procuring  some  old  volume  of  legendary 
lays  at  the  end  of  the  journey  was  held  out  to  him. 

In  1842,  when  he  was  only  seventeen  years  of  age, 
he  resolved  to  seek  fame  and  fortune  on  the  shores 
of  the  New  World,  where 

There  is  honor  for  the  men  of  worth 
And  wealth  for  those  who  toil. 

The  parting  from  the  land  that  contained  the  ashes 
of  his  forefathers  and  the  green  grave  of  his  idolized 
mother  was  to  him  a  source  of  keen,  heart-rending 
sorrow.  Thus  he  pours  forth  his  agonizing  wail  as 
Ireland  receded  from  his  sight,  and  the  good  ship 
Leo  disappeared  in  the  dim  horison. 

Tell  me  truly,  pensive  sage, 
Seest  thou  signs  on  any  page  ? 
Know'st  a  volume  yet  to  ope, 
Where  I  may  read  of  hope — of  hope  ? 

Dare  I  seek  it  where  the  wave 
Grieves  above  Leander's  grave  ? 
Must  I  follow  forth  my  quest 
In  the  wider,  freer  West  ? 


342  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

He  did  "follow  forth  his  quest"  in  the  great  and 
beauteous  West  where  he  won  fame  and  fortune. 

He  was  not  long  in  Boston  when  the  rejoicing  of 
the  multitude  ushered  in  the  ever  "glorious  4th  of 
July."  The  youthful  immigrant  delivered  a  speech 
on  the  great  National  anniversary  that  astonished 
everyone  and  secured  for  himself  a  position  from  Mr. 
Patrick  Donohue  on  the  Boston  Pilot. 

This  boy  from  the  banks  of  the  Slaney  soon  gained 
the  editorial  management  of  the  Pilot,  and  in  this 
capacity  did  good  service  for  his  religion  and  race. 
His  mighty  genius  developed  rapidly,  and  in  three 
years  he  was  offered  the  editorial  chair  in  the  office 
of  the  Dublin  Freeman's  Journal.  He  returned  to 
his  native  land  a  man  of  mark  at  the  age  of  twenty 
and  assumed  the  chief  place  in  the  office  of  that 
enterprising  journal.  The  Freeman's  views  were 
entirely  too  tame  for  one  who  was  accustomed  to 
speak  his  mind  in  no  uncertain  or  faltering  tones. 
He  would  not  be  permitted  to  change  its  character, 
so  he  decided  to  change  his  place,  and  went  over  to 
the  office  of  the  Nation,  where  he  worked  with 
Duffy,  Davis,  Mitchel  and  Devin  Reilly  for  the 
propagation  of  "  Young  Ireland  "  doctrines.  There 
was  not  in  any  metropolis  of  Europe  at  that  time  a 
paper  so  ably  edited  or  one  that  could  boast  of  such 
a  galaxy  of  genius  as  the  Dublin  Nation.  Mitchel, 


THOMAS  D'AKCY  M'GEE.  343 

McGee,  Duffy,  Davis  and  Devin  Reilly  were  men  of 
great  minds,  and  in  their  hands  the  pen  was  truly 
"  a  mighty  instrument."  That  brilliant  band  of 
agitators,  editors,  orators  and  poets  has  never  since 
been  equalled  in  Ireland 

When  shall  Erin  see  their  like  again?  She  sadly 
needs  such  men  to-day 

O'Connell,  the  great  Liberator,  died  in  1847.  An 
attempt  at  Rebellion  was  made  in  1848.  The  after 
tale  is  easily  told.  In  that  short  and  abortive  strug- 
gle Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee  did  faithfully  and  well 
all  that  was  assigned  to  him.  While  addressing  his 
countrymen  in  Wicklow  he  was  arrested  and  lodged 
in  prison.  After  obtaining  his  liberty,  he  went  over 
to  Scotland  pursuant  to  the  orders  of  the  "  Irish 
Executive,"  with  the  intention  of  securing  the 
co-operation  of  the  Irish  operatives  in  the  contem- 
plated rising.  While  thus  engaged  in  Scotland  the 
chiefs  of  the  Confederation  were  arrested  at  home. 
McGee  managed  to  return  to  Derry  where  he  was 
sheltered  by  the  learned  Catholic  Bishop  of  the 
North,  Dr.  Maginn.  After  an  interview  with  his 
young  wife,  he  made  his  way  to  Galway  whence  he 
sailed  a  second  time  for  the  United  States,  the  Land 
of  Freedom,  dressed  in  the  garb  of  a  clergyman.  It 
was  while  being  borne  away  from  the  shores  of 
Hibernia  that  he  penned  the  following  ballad, 
entitled: 


IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

PARTING  FROM  IRELAND. 

OH,  dread  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth! 

Hard  and  sad  it  is  to  go 
From  the  land  I  loved  and  cherished 

Into  outward  gloom  and  woe. 
Was  it  for  this,  Guardian  angel! 

When  to  manly  years  I  came , 
Homeward  as  a  light  you  led  me — 

Light  that  now  is  turn'd  to  flame  ? 

I  am  as  a  shipwreck'd  sailor, 

By  one  wave  flung  on  shore , 
By  the  next  torn  struggling  seaward 

Without  hope  forevermore. 
I  am  as  a  sinner  toiling 

Onward  to  Redemption's  Hill — 
By  the  rising  sands  environ'd, 

By  siroccos  baffled  still. 

How  I  loved  this  nation  ye  know , 

Gentle  friends,  who  share  my  fate, 
And  you,  too,  heroic  comrades, 

Loaded  with  the  fetter's  weight. 
How  I  coveted  all  knowledge 

That  might  raise  her  name  with  men, 
How  I  sought  her  secret  beauties 

With  an  all-insatiate  ken. 

God !  it  is  a  maddening  prospect 

To  see  this  storied  land, 
Like  some  wretched  culprit  writhing 

In  a  strong  avenger's  hand, — 


THOMAS  D'ABCY  M'GEE.  345 

Kneeling,  foaming,  weeping,  shrieking, 

Woman- weak  and  woman-loud, — 
Better,  better,  Mother  Ireland, 

We  had  laid  you  in  a  shroud ! 

If  an  end  were  made,  and  nobly, 

Of  this  old,  centennial  feud — 
If,  in  arms,  outnumbered,  beaten, 

Less,  0  Ireland!  had  I  rued; 
For  the  scattered  sparks  of  valor 

Might  relight  thy  darkness  yet, 
And  thy  long  chain  of  Resistance 

To  the  Future  had  been  set. 

Now  their  Caxtle  sits  securely 

On  the  old  accursed  hill , 
And  their  motley  pirate  standard 

Taints  the  air  of  Ireland  still; 
And  their  titled  paupers  clothe  them 

With  the  labor  of  our  hands, 
And  their  Saxon  greed  is  glutted 

From  our  plundered  fathers'  lands. 

But  our  faith  is  all  unshaken, 

Though  our  present  hope  is  gone; 
England's  lease  is  not  forever — 

Ireland's  welfare  is  not  done. 
God  in  Heaven,  He  is  immortal — 

Jusiire  is  His  sword  and  sign — 
If  this  world  is  not  our  ally, 

We  have  One  who  is  Divine. 


346  IRISH    POETS   AND   NOVELISTS' 

Though  my  eyes  no  more  may  see  thee, 

Island  of  my  early  love ! 
Other  eyes  shall  see  the  Green  Flag 

Flying  the  tall  hills  above; 
Though  my  ears  no  more  may  listen 

To  the  rivers  as  they  flow, 
Other  ears  shall  hear  a  paean 

Closing  thy  long  caoine  of  woe. 

These  energetic  verses  faithfully  mirrored  the 
mind  of  the  defeated  patriot  as  he  turned  a  second 
time  from  his  native  land,  leaving  nothing  but  shat- 
tered hopes  and  disaster  behind  him 

On  the  10th  of  October,  1848,  he  reached  Phila- 
delphia, and  fifteen  days  later  he  issued  the  first  copy 
of  the  New  York  Nation,  which  was  not  destined  to 
equal  the  career  of  its  Dublin  namesake.  The  paper 
was  well  received,  and  for  a  time  promised  to  bring 
wealth  and  additional  fame  to  its  proprietor  and 
editor.  The  Young  Irelander  was  a  radical,  smart- 
ing keenly  under  the  sting  of  an  ignominious  defeat, 
.  and  undertook  in  the  columns  of  the  Nation  to 
attribute  the  failure  of  the  'Forty-eight  rising  to  the 
interposition  of  the  bishops  and  priests.  He  strenu- 
ously maintained  that  the  priests  used  all  their 
mighty  influence  in  preventing  the  young  men  of 
Ireland  from  joining  the  insurgents.  Archbishop 
Hughes  came  quickly  to  the  defence  of  the  Irish 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  M'GEE..  347 

priesthood,  and  in  a  series  of  letters  ably  refuted  the 
assertions  of  the  young  refugee 

It  could  not  be  expected  that  Mr.  McGee  could 
hold  his  own  against  Archbishop  Hughes,  the  victor 
of  a  dozen  controversial  fields.  As  a  result  the  New 
York  Nation  went  under;  and  at  the  solicitation  of 
numerous  friends  the  editor  removed  with  his  family 
to  the  city  of  Boston,  in  1850,  where  he  commenced 
the  publication  of  the  American  Gelt.  A  year  later 
he  removed  the  publication  to  New  York  City,  and 
continued  it  there  till  its  suspension  in  1858.  In 
January,  1855,  McGee  again  visited  Ireland,  the 
political  disabilities  under  which  he  labored  having 
lapsed.  He  wrote  a  series  of  able  papers  for  the 
Celt,  entitled  "  Ireland  Re-visited,"  which  were  the 
beginning  of  the  movement  for  colonization  that 
developed  later  on. 

It  is  said  that  the  radical  revolutionist  of  twenty 
summers  becomes  a  stern  conservative  at  forty.  So 
it  was  with  McGee,  and  the  change  in  his  principles 
evoked  severe  criticism  from  the  ranks  of  the  Physi- 
cal Force  party.  In  a  letter  to  Thomas  Francis 
Meagher,  the  brilliant  orator  and  patriot,  he  sets 
forth  his  reasons  for  altering  his  opinions.  Among 
other  reasons  he  assigns  the  following: 

"  Having  discovered,  by  close  self-examination,  that  the  read- 
ing chiefly  of  modern  books,  English  and  French,  gave  very 
superficial  and  false  views  of  political  science,  I  cheerfully  said 


348  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

to  myself,  '  My  friend,  you  are  on  the  wrong  track.  You  think 
you  know  something  of  human  affairs;  but  you  do  not.  You 
are  ignorant — very  ignorant — of  the  primary  principles  that 
govern  and  must  govern  the  world.  You  can  put  sentences 
together;  but  what  does  that  avail  you  when,  perhaps,  these 
sentences  are  but  the  husks  and  pods  of  poisonous  seeds  ? 
Beware !  look  to  it !  you  have  a  soul !  What  will  all  the  fame 
of  talents  avail  you  if  you  lose  that  ? '  Thus  I  reasoned  with 
myself,  and  then  setting  my  cherished  opinions  before  me,  one 
by  one,  I  tried,  judged  and  capitally  executed  every  one  save 
and  except  those  which  I  found  to  be  compatible  with  the  fol- 
lowing doctrines: 

"  1st.    That  there  is  a  Christendom. 

"  2d.  That  this  Christendom  exists  by  and  for  the  Catholic 
Church. 

' '  3d.  That  there  is  in  our  age  one  of  the  most  dangerous 
and  general  conspiracies  against  Christendom  that  the  world 
has  yet  seen. 

"4th.  That  this  conspiracy  is  aided,  abetted  and  tolerated 
by  many  because  of  its  stolen  watchword — Liberty. 

1 '  5th.  That  it  is  the  highest  duty  of  a  Catholic  man  to  go 
over  cheerfully,  heartily  and  at  once  to  the  side  of  Christendom 
— to  the  Catholic  side — and  to  resist,  with  all  his  might,  the 
conspirators  who,  under  the  stolen  name  of  '  Liberty/  make  war 
upon  all  Christian  institutions." 

These  are  a  few  of  the  cogent  reasons  given  by  Mr. 
McGee  for  changing  his  political  doctrines.  It  must 
be  acknowledged  that  his  discoveries  were  based  on 
solid  truths,  and  the  wonder  is  that  they  were  not 
made  sooner.  The  watchwords  of  conspirators — 


THOMAS  D'ABCY  M'GEE.  349 

Liberty,  Equality  and  Fraternity — are  filched  from 
Catholic  writers,  stolen  from  Catholic  Christianity, 
and  used  with  telling  effect  by  popular  demagogues 
and  impious  opponents  of  Christian  teachings. 

McGee  was  not  only  a  brilliant  orator,  but  also  a 
deep  thinker  and  a  writer  of  inimitable  force  and 
unequalled  skill.  His  lectures  on  "  The  Catholic 
History  of  America  "  are  the  best  ever  written  on 
the  subject.  "  Irish  Settlers  in  North  America " 
contains  an  important  part  of  the  annals  from  which 
the  future  historian  of  the  Irish  race  in  North 
America  will  be  obliged  to  draw. 

In  1862,  he  published  his  "  History  of  Ireland  " 
in  two  12mo  volumes;  and,  although  this  work  is 
not  what  the  history  of  Ireland  should  be,  it  is 
undoubtedly  one  of  the  best  we  have.  "The  Refor- 
mation in  Ireland,"  from  his  ever  busy  and  gifted 
pen,  is  a  marvel  of  learning,  logic  and  research, 
which  proves  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  a  true 
lover  of  his  native  land  and  the  faith  of  his  fathers. 
"O'Connell  and  his  Friends,"  "The  Jesuits"  and 
"  Irish  Writers  "  are  works  that  bear  the  impress  of 
his  powerful  mind.  To  Mr.  McGee  must  be  given 
the  credit  of  originating  the  "  Catholic  Colonization  " 
idea. 

He,  it  was,  who  conceived  the  idea,  and  formulated 
the  plan  of  locating  the  immigrants  from  Ireland  on 


350  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

the  broad,  fertile  prairies  of  the  great  West.  It  was  a 
project  worthy  of  the  man,  and  one  which,  if  effectu- 
ated, would  have  proved  exceedingly  beneficial  to  the 
whole  Irish  race  in  the  United  States.  While  advo- 
cating this  colonizing  scheme  in  the  columns  of  the 
Celt,  he  summoned  the  Buffalo  Convention  for  the 
purpose  of  furthering  the  movement.  This  Conven- 
tion was  composed  of  one  hundred  Irish  Americans. 
The  resolutions  and  suggestions  of  the  Convention 
met  with  considerable  opposition  in  different  quar- 
ters, and  were  lost  sight  of  until  D'Arcy  McGee  had 
been  gathered  to  the  grave. 

Removing  to  Canada,  he  commenced  in  Montreal 
the  publication  of  the  New  Era.  On  the  second 
year  of  his  residence  in  the  Province  his  friends  and 
countrymen  elected  him  to  the  Canadian  Parliament, 
and  thenceforth  his  public  career  was  both  brilliant 
and  successful,  even  to  that  fatal  moment  when  the 
assassin's  hand  struck  down  the  noble  exile  at  the 
very  threshold  of  his  lodgings. 

This  lamentable  event  took  place  on  the  7th  day 
of  April,  1868,  in  the  city  of  Ottawa,  and  threw  all 
the  land  into  mourning  for  the  illustrious  dead.  In 
him  Ireland  lost  a  champion  of  her  rights,  the 
Catholic  Church  a  devoted  son,  and  Canada  her  best 
and  most  brilliant  statesman. 

The  Requiem  for  his  eternal  repose  was  chanted  in 


THOMAS   D'AKCY   M'GEE.  351 

the  Cathedral  of  Ottawa.  He  lies  buried  in  Mount 
Royal,  near  Montreal,  on  a  sunny  slope  which  faces 
the  St.  Lawrence.  "  Here,"  writes  a  distinguished 
lawyer  of  Montreal,  "  sleeps  the  greatest  poet,  orator, 
statesman,  historian — the  best,  the  truest  friend, 
counsellor  and  guide  of  the  Irish  race  in  America.1' 

He  died  far  away  from  the  land  of  his  love,  on 
which  all  his  fondest  and  dearest  hopes  were  centred, 
from  the  sacred  spot  that  clasps  the  ashes  of  his  dead, 
and  the  home  where  the  golden  hours  of  his  youth 
sped  swiftly  away. 

Often,  when  the  labor  of  the  day  was  done,  would 
he  go  back  in  spirit  to  those  scenes  hallowed  by  a 
thousand  memories.  His  fondest  hopes  ever  turned 
eastward  to  the  shores  of  Erin  and  found  expression 
in  pathetic  poems  like  the 

WISHING  CAP. 

WISHING  cap,  wishing  cap,  let  us  away 
To  walk  in  the  cloisters,  at  close  of  day, 
Once  trod  by  the  friars  of  orders  gray, 
In  Norman  Selskar's  renown 'd  abbaye 

And  Carmen's  ancient  town; 
For  I  would  kneel  at  my  mother's  grave, 
Where  the  plume  y  churchyard  elms  wave, 

And  the  old  war- walls  look  down. 

Two  nations  mourned  his  untimely  death,  and 
innumerable  prayers  were  offered  for  the  repose  of 


352  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

his  immortal  spirit.  May  he  join  the  celestial  sin- 
gers, and  rest  in  everlasting  glory! 

As  a  poet  McGee  ranks  high,  indeed.  The  lamented 
Henry  Giles,  a  man  of  national  reputation,  writing 
of  McGee,  says:  "How  varied  the  poems  were  that 
he  breathed  forth  upon  the  woes  and  wrongs  of  Ire- 
land !  How  noble  the  strains  in  which  he  celebrated 
that  beautiful  land  of  much  calamity  and  countless 
wrongs!" 

The  Dublin  Nation  of  May,  1857,  referring  to  our 
author's  published  poems,  speaks  thus:  "  We  might 
search  in  vain,  even  through  the  numberless  volumes 
of  English  poems  and  lyrics,  for  any  that  equal  in 
their  passion,  fire  and  beauty  his  verses  entitled 
1  The  War,'  '  Sebastian  Cabot  to  his  Lady,'  '  The  Celt's 
Salutation,'  and  many  others." 

The  London  Athenaeum,  which  could  have  very  lit- 
tle sympathy  with  McGee,  in  an  article  on  Canadian 
poetry,  wrote:  "They  have  one  true  poet  within 
their  borders — that  is  Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee.  In 
his  younger  days  the  principle  of  rebellion  inspired 
him  with  stately  verse;  let  us  hope  that  the  con- 
servative principles  of  his  more  mature  years  will 
yield  many  a  noble  song  in  his  new  country." 

We  might  keep  on  quoting  the  words  of  praise 
that  were  bestowed  on  the  poetry  of  McGee  almost 
ad  infinitum.  He  touched  the  chords  of  charity  and 


THOMAS  D'ABCY  M'GEE.  353 

friendship,  war,  peace   and   patriotism,  and  each  he 
swept  with  a  master  hand. 

THE  HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

PALER  and  thinner  the  morning  moon  grew , 
Colder  and  sterner  the  rising  wind  blew ; 
The  pole-star  had  set  in  a  forest  of  cloud, 
And  the  icicles  crackled  on  spar  and  on  shroud, 
When  a  voice  from  below  we  heard  feebly  cry: 
"  Let  me  see,  let  me  see  my  own  land  ere  I  die." 

'*  Ah,  dear  sailor,  say,  have  we  sighted  Cape  Clear? 

Can  you  see  any  sign  ?    Is  the  morning  light  near  ? 

You  are  young,  my  brave  boy;  thanks,  thanks  for  your  hand — 

Help  me  up,  till  I  get  a  last  glimpse  of  the  land. 

Thank  God,  'tis  the  sun  that  now  reddens  the  sky; 

I  shall  see,  I  shall  see  my  own  land  ere  I  die. 

"  Let  me  lean  on  your  strength,  I  am  feeble  and  old, 
And  one-half  of  my  heart  is  already  stone-cold. 
Forty  years  work  a  change !  when  I  first  crossed  the  sea 
There  were  few  on  the  deck  that  could  grapple  with  me; 
But  my  youth  and  my  prime  in  Ohio  went  by, 
And  I'm  come  back  to  see  the  old  spot  ere  I  die. " 

'Twas  a  feeble  old  man,  and  he  stood  on  the  deck 
His  arm  round  a  kindly  young  mariner's  neck , 
His  ghastly  gaze  fixed  on  the  tints  of  the  east, 
As  a  starveling  might  stare  at  the  noise  of  a  feast. 
The  morn  quickly  rose  and  revealed  to  his  eye 

The  land  he  had  prayed  to  behold ,  and  then  die ! 

24 


354  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Green,  green  was  the  shore,  though  the  year  was  near  done; 

High  and  haughty  the  capes  the  white  surf  dashed  upon; 

A  gray  ruined  convent  was  down  by  the  strand, 

And  the  sheep  fed  afar,  on  the  hills  of  the  land! 

"  God  be  with  you,  dear  Ireland!"  he  gasped  with  a  sigh; 

"  I  have  lived  to  behold  you— I'm  ready  to  die." 

He  sunk  by  the  hour,  and  his  pulse  'gan  to  fail, 
As  we  swept  by  the  headland  of  storied  Kinsale ; 
Off  Ardigna  Bay  it  came  slower  and  slower, 
And  his  corpse  was  clay-cold  as  we  sighted  Tramore. 
At  Passage  we  waked  him,  and  now  he  doth  lie 
In  the  lap  of  the  land  he  beheld  but  to  die. 

THE  CELTIC  CROSS. 

THROUGH  storm,  and  fire,  and  gloom,  I  see  it  stand, 

Firm,  broad,  and  tall — 
The  Celtic  Cross  that  marks  our  Fatherland, 

Amid  them  all ! 
Druids,  and  Danes,  and  Saxons  vainly  rage 

Around  its  base; 
It  standeth  shock  on  shock,  and  age  on  age, 

Star  of  our  scattered  race. 

O,  Holy  Cross!  dear  symbol  of  the  dread 

Death  of  our  Lord, 
Around  thee  long  have  slept  our  Martyr-dead, 

Sward  over  sward ! 
An  hundred  Bishops  I  myself  can  count 

Among  the  slain — 
Chiefs,  captains,  rank  and  file,  a  shining  mount 

Of  God's  ripe  grain. 


THOMAS  D'AKCY  M'GEE.  355 

The  Recreant's  hate,  the  Puritan's  claymore, 

Smote  thee  not  down; 
On  headland  steep,  on  mountain  summit  hoar, 

In  mart  and  town; 
In  Glendalough,  in  Ara,  in  Tyrone, 

We  find  thee  still, 
Thy  open  arms  still  stretching  to  thine  own, 

O'er  town,  and  lough  and  hill. 

And  they  would  tear  thee  out  of  Irish  soil, 

The  guilty  fools! 
How  time  must  mock  their  antiquated  toil 

And  broken  tools! 
Cranmer  and  Cromwell  from  thy  grasp  retired, 

Baffled  and  thrown; 
William  and  Anne  to  sap  thy  site  conspired — 

The  rest  is  known! 

Holy  Saint  Patrick,  Father  of  our  Faith, 

Beloved  of  God! 
Shield  thy  dear  church  from  the  impending  scathe, 

Or,  if  the  rod 
Must  scourge  it  yet  again,  inspire  and  raise 

To  emprise  high, 
Men  like  the  heroic  race  of  other  days, 

Who  joyed  to  die ! 

Fear!     Wherefore  should  the  Celtic  people  fear 

Their  Church's  fate  ? 
The  day  is  not — the  day  was  never  near — 

Could  desolate 


356  IBISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

The  Destined  Island,  all  whose  seedy  clay 

Is  holy  ground — 
Its  Cross  shall  stand  till  that  predestined  day, 

When  Erin's  self  is  drowned! 


SALUTATION  TO  THE  CELTS. 

I 

HAIL  to  our  Celtic  brethren  wherever  they  may  be, 
In  the  far  woods  of  Oregon,  or  o'er  the  Atlantic  sea — 
Whether  they  guard  the  banner  of  St.  George  in  Indian  vales, 
Or  spread  beneath  the  nightless  North  experimental  sails — 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 

Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 

II. 

Though  fallen  the  state  of  Erin,  and  changed  the  Scottish  land — 
Though  small  the  power  of  Mona,  though  unwaked  Le welly n's 

band- 
Though  Ambrose  Merlin's  prophecies  degenerate  to  tales, 
And  the  cloisters  of  lona  are  bemoan 'd  by  northern  gales — 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 

Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 

III. 

In  Northern  Spain  and  Brittany  our  brethren  also  dwell; 
Oh!  brave  are  the  traditions  of  their  fathers  that  they  tell;— 
The  eagle  and  the  crescent  in  the  dawn  of  history  pales 
Before  their  fire,  that  seldom  flags,  and  never  wholly  fails: 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 

Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  M'GEE.  357 

IV. 

A  greeting  and  a  promise  unto  them  all  we  send; 
Their  character  our  charter  is,  their  glory  is  our  end; 
Their  friend  shall  be  our  friend,  our  foe  whoe'er  assails 
The  past  or  future  honors  of  the  far-dispersed  Gaels: 

One  in  name  and  in  fame 

Are  the  sea-divided  Gaels. 

THE  EXILE'S  REQUEST. 

OH,  Pilgrim,  if  you  bring  me  from  the  far-off  lands  a  sign, 
Let  it  be  some  token  still  of  the  green  old  land,  once  mine; 
A  shell  from  the  shores  of  Ireland  would  be  dearer  far  to  me, 
Than  all  the  wines  of  the  Rhine  land,  or  the  art  of  Italie. 

For  I  was  born  in  Ireland — I  glory  in  the  name — 
I  weep  for  all  her  sorrows,  I  remember  well  her  fame! 
And  still  my  heart  must  hope  that  I  may  yet  repose  at  rest, 
On  the  Holy  Zion  of  my  youth,  in  the  Israel  of  the  West. 

Her  beauteous  face  is  furrowed  with  sorrow's  streaming  rains, 
Her  lovely  limbs  are  mangled  with  slavery's  ancient  chains, 
Yet,  Pilgrim,  pass  not  over  with  heedless  heart  or  eye, 
The  Island  of  the  gifted,  and  of  men  who  knew  to  die. 

Like  the  crater  of  a  fire-mount,  all  without  is  bleak  and  bare, 
But  the  vigor  of  its  lips  still  show  what  fire  and  force  were  there, 
Even  now  in  the  heaving  craters,  far  from  the  gazer's  ken, 
The  fiery  heel  is  forging  that  will  crush  her  foes  again. 

Then,  Pilgrim,  if  you  bring  me  from  the  far-off  lands  a  sign, 
Let  it  be  some  token  still  of  the  green  old  land,  once  mine; 
A  shell  from  the  shores  of  Ireland  would  be  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  all  the  wines  of  the  Rhine  land,  or  the  art  of  Italie. 


358  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

THE   LIVING  AND   THE  DEAD. 

BRIGHT  is  the  Spring  time,  Erin,  green  and  gay  to  see; 
But  my  heart  is  heavy,  Erin,  with  thoughts  of  thy  sons  and  thee; 
Thinking  of  your  dead  men  lying  as  thick  as  grass  new  mown — 
Thinking  of  your  myriads  dying,  unnoted  and  unknown — 
Thinking  of  your  myriads  flying  beyond  the  abysmal  waves — 
Thinking  of  your  magnates  sighing,  and  stifling  their  thoughts 
like  slaves ! 

Oh!  for  the  time,  dear  Erin,  the  fierce  time  long  ago, 

When  your  men  felt  brave,  dear  Erin,  and  their  hands  could 

strike  a  blow ! 
When  your  Gaelic  chiefs  were  ready  to  stand  in  the  bloody 

breach — 
Danger  but  made  them  steady;    they  struck,  and  saved  their 

speech ! 

But  where  are  the  men  to  head  ye,  and  lead  you  face  to  face, 
To  trample  the  powers  that  tread  ye,  men  of  the  fallen  race! 

The  yellow  corn,  dear  Erin,  waves  plenteous  o'er  the  plain; 
But  where  are  the  hands,  dear  Erin,  to  gather  in  the  grain  ? 
The  sinewy  man  is  sleeping  in  the  crowded  churchyard  near, 
And  his  young  wife  is  keeping  his  lonesome  company  there, 
His  brother  shoreward  creeping,  has  begged  his  way  abroad, 
And  his  sister — tho'  for  weeping,  she  scarce  could  see  the  road. 

No  other  nation,  Erin,  but  only  you  would  bear 
A  yoke  like  yours,  oh!  Erin,  a  month,  not  to  say  a  year; 
And  will  you  bear  it  for  ever,  writhing  and  sighing  sore, 
Now  learn— learn  now,  or  never,  to  dare,  not  to  deplore— 
Learn  to  join  in  one  endeavor  your  creeds  and  people  all — 
'Tis  only  thus  can  you  sever  your  tyrant's  iron  thrall. 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  M'GEE.  359 

Then  call  your  people,  Erin,  call  with  a  Prophet's  cry — 

Bid  them  link  in  union,  Erin,  and  do  like  men  or  die — 

Bid  the  hind  from  the  loamy  valley,  the  miller  from  the  fall — 

Bid  the  craftsman  from  his  alley,  the  lord  from  his  lordly  hall — 

Bid  the  old  and  the  young  man  rally,  and  trust  to  work — not 

words, 
And  thenceforth  ever  shall  ye  be  free  as  the  forest  birds. 


TO   A  FKIEND  IN  AUSTRALIA.* 

OLD  friend!  though  distant  far, 

Your  image  nightly  shines  upon  my  soul; 

I  yearn  toward  it  as  toward  a  star 

That  points  through  darkness  to  the  ancient  pole. 

Out  of  my  heart  the  longing  wishes  fly, 

As  to  some  rapt  Elias,  Enoch,  Seth; 
Yours  is  another  earth,  another  sky, 

And  I — I  feel  that  distance  is  like  death. 

Oh!  for  one  week  amid  the  emerald  fields, 
Where  the  Avoca  sings  the  song  of  Moore; 

Oh!  for  the  odor  the  brown  heather  yields, 
To  glad  the  pilgrim's  heart  on  Glenmalure ! 

Yet  is  there  still  what  meeting  could  not  give, 

A  joy  most  suited  of  all  joys  to  last; 
For,  ever  in  fair  memory  there  must  live 

The  bright,  unclouded  picture  of  the  past. 


Charles  Gavan  Duffy. 


360  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

Old  friend!  the  years  wear  on,  and  many  cares 
And  many  sorrows  both  of  us  have  known; 

Time  for  us  both  a  quiet  couch  prepares — 
A  couch  like  Jacob's,  pillow'd  with  a  stone. 

And  oh !  when  thus  we  sleep  may  we  behold 
The  angelic  ladder  of  the  Patriarch's  dream; 

And  may  my  feet  upon  its  rungs  of  gold 
Yours  follow,  as  of  old,  by  hill  and  stream! 


CONSOLATION. 
I. 

MEN  seek  for  treasure  in  the  earth; 

Where  I  have  buried  mine, 
There  never  mortal  eye  shall  pierce, 

Nor  star  nor  lamp  shall  shine ! 
We  know,  my  love,  oh!  well  we  know, 

The  secret  treasure-spot, 
Yet  must  our  tears  forever  fall, 

Because  that  they  are  not. 

II. 

How  gladly  would  we  give  to  light 

The  ivory  forehead  fair — 
The  eye  of  heavenly-beaming  blue, 

The  clust'ring  chestnut  hair — 
Yet  look  around  this  mournful  scene 

Of  daily  earthly  life, 
And  could  you  wish  them  back  to  share 

Its  sorrow  and  its  strife  ? 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  M'GEE. 

m. 

If  blessed  angels  stray  to  earth, 

And  seek  in  vain  a  shrine, 
They  needs  must  back  return  again 

Unto  their  source  divine: 
All  life  obeys  the  unchanging  law 

Of  Him  who  took  and  gave, 
We  count  a  glorious  saint  in  heaven 

For  each  child  in  the  grave. 

IV. 

Look  up,  my  love,  look  up,  afar, 

And  dry  each  bitter  tear; 
Behold,  three  white-robed  innocents 

At  heaven's  high  gate  appear! 
For  you  and  me  and  those  we  love, 

They  smilingly  await — 
God  grant  we  may  be  fit  to  join 

Those  Angels  at  the  Gate. 


THE  EXILE'S  DEVOTION. 

I'D  rather  be  the  bird  that  sings 

Above  the  martyr's  grave, 
Than  fold  in  fortune's  cage  my  wings 

And  feol  my  soul  a  slave; 
I'd  rather  turn  one  simple  verse 

True  to  the  Gaelic  ear, 
Than  Sapphic  odes  I  might  rehearse 

With  senates  listening  near. 


362  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

O  Native  Land!  dost  ever  mark, 

When  the  world's  din  is  drown'd, 
Betwixt  the  daylight  and  the  dark 

A  wandering  solemn  sound, 
That  on  the  western  wind  is  borne 

Across  thy  dewy  breast  ? 
It  is  the  voice  of  those  who  mourn 

For  thee; far  in  the  West! 

For  them  and  theirs,  I  oft  essay 

Your  ancient  art  of  song, 
And  often  sadly  turn  away, 

Deeming  my  rashness  wrong; 
For  well  I  ween,  a  loving  will 

Is  all  the  art  I  own. 
Ah  me,  could  love  suffice  for  skill, 

What  triumphs  I  had  known! 

My  native  land,  my  native  land, 

Live  in  my  memory  still! 
Break  on  my  brain,  ye  surges  grand! 

Stand  up,  mist-covered  hill! 
Still  in  the  mirror  of  the  mind 

The  land  I  love  I  see; 
Would  I  could  fly  on  the  western  wind, 

My  native  land,  to  thee! 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  M'GEE.  363. 

THE  DYING  CELT  TO  HIS  AMERICAN  SON. 

MY  son,  a  darkness  falleth, 

Not  of  night,  upon  my  eyes; 
And  in  my  ears  there  calleth 

A  voice  as  from  the  skies; 
I  feel  that  I  am  dying, 

I  feel  my  day  is  done, 
Bid  the  women  hush  their  crying 

And  hear  to  me,  my  son! 

When  Time  my  garland  gathers, 

Oh!  my  son,  I  charge  you  hold 
By  the  standard  of  your  fathers 

In  the  battle-fields  of  old! 
In  blood  they  wrote  their  story 

Across  the  fields,  my  boy; 
On  earth  it  was  their  glory, 

In  heaven  it  is  their  joy. 

By  St.  Patrick's  hand  'twas  planted 

On  Erin's  sea-beat  shore, 
And  it  spread  its  folds,  undaunted, 

Through  the  drift  and  the  uproar; — 
Of  ail  its  vain  assaulters, — 

Who  could  ever  say  he  saw 
The  last  of  Ireland's  altars  ? 

Or  the  last  of  Patrick's  law  ? 

Through  the  western  ocean  driven, 

By  the  tyrant's  scorpion  whips, 
Behold!  the  hand  of  Heaven 

Bore  our  standard  o'er  the  ships! 


364  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

In  the  forest's  far  recesses, 

When  the  moon  shines  in  at  night, 

The  Celtic  cross  now  blesses 
The  weary  wanderer's  sight! 

My  son,  my  son,  there  falleth 

Deeper  darkness  on  my  eyes; 
And  the  Guardian  Angel  calleth 

Me  by  name  from  out  the  skies. 
Dear,  my  son,  I  charge  thee  cherish 

Christ's  holy  cross  o'er  all; 
Let  whatever  else  may  perish, 

Let  whatever  else  may  fall. 

THE  VIRGIN  MARY'S   KNIGHT. 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  CRUSADES. 


[In  the  "Middle  Ages,"  there  were  Orders  of  Knights  especially  devoted  to 
our  Blessed  Lady,  as  well  as  many  illustrious  individuals  of  knightly  rank 
and  renown.  Thus  the  Order  called  Servites,  in  France,  was  known  as  tes 
esclaves  de  Marie;  and  there  was  also  the  Order  of  "Our  Lady  of  Mercy," 
for  the  redemption  of  captives;  the  Templars,  too,  before  their  fall,  were 
devoutly  attached  to  the  service  of  our  Blessed  Lady.] 


BENEATH  the  stars  in  Palestine  seven  knights  discoursing  stood, 
But  not  of  warlike  work  to  come,  nor  former  fields  of  blood, 
Nor  of  the  joy  the  pilgrims  feel  prostrated  far,  who  see 
The  hill  where  Christ's  atoning  blood  pour'd  down  the  penal 

tree; 
Their  theme  was  old,  their  theme  was  new,  'twas  sweet  and 

yet  'twas  bitter, — 

Of  noble  ladies  left  behind  spoke  cavalier  and  ritter, 
And  eyes  grew  bright,  and  sighs  arose  from  every  iron  breast, 
For  a  dear  wife ,  or  plighted  maid ,  far  in  the  widow'd  West. 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  M'GEE.  365 

Towards  the  knights  came  Constantine,  thrice   noble   by  his 

birth, 

And  ten  times  nobler  than  his  blood  his  high  out-shining  worth; 
His  step  was  slow,  his  lips  were  moved,  though  not  a  word  he 

spoke, 

Till  a  gallant  lord  of  Lombardy  his  spell  of  silence  broke. 
"  What  aileth  thee,  O  Constantine,  that  solitude  you  seek? 
If  counsel  or  if  aid  thou  need'st,  we  pray  thee  do  but  speak; 
Or  dost  thou  mourn,  like  other  freres,  thy  lady-love  afar 
Whose  image  shineth  nightly  through  yon  European  star?" 

Then  answer 'd  courteous  Constantine — ''Good  sir,  in  simple 

truth, 

I  chose  a  gracious  lady  in  the  hey-day  of  my  youth; 
I  wear  her  image  on  my  heart,  and  when  that  heart  is  cold, 
The  secret  may  be  rifled  thence,  but  never  must  be  told. 
For  her  I  love  and  worship  well  by  light  of  morn  or  even, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  my  mistress  dear,  until  we  meet  in  heaven; 
But  this  believe,  brave  cavaliers,  there  never  was  but  one 
Such  lady  as  my  Holy  Love,  beneath  the  blessed  sun." 

He  ceased,  and  pass'd  with  solemn  step  on  to  an  olive  grove, 
And,  kneeling  there,  he  pray'd  a  prayer  to  the  Lady  of  his  love. 
And  many  a  cavalier  whose  lance  had  still  maintain'd  his  own 
Beloved  to  reign  without  a  peer,  all  earth's  unequalled  one, 
Look'd  tenderly  on  Constantine  in  camp  and  in  the  fight; 
With  wonder  and  with  generous  pride  they  mark'd  the  light'ning 

light 

Of  his  fearless  sword  careering  through  the  unbelievers'  ranks, 
As  angry  Rhone  sweeps  off  the  vines  that  thicken  on  his  banks. 


366  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

"  He  fears  not  death,  come  when  it  will;  he  longeth  for  his  love, 
And  fain  would  find  some  sudden  path  to  where  she  dwells 

above. 

How  should  he  fear  for  dying,  when  his  mistress  dear  is  dead?" 
Thus  often  of  Sir  Constantine  his  watchful  comrades  said; 
Until  it  chanced  from  Zion  wall  the  tatal  arrow  flew, 
That  pierced  the  outworn  armor  of  his  faithful  bosom  through; 
And  never  was  such  mourning  made  for  knight  in  Palestine, 
As  thy  loyal  comrades  made  for  thee,  beloved  Constantine. 

Beneath  the  royal  tent  the  bier  was  guarded  night  and  day, 
Where  with  a  halo  round  his  head  the  Christian  champion  lay; 
That  talisman  upon  his  breast — what  may  that  marvel  be 
Which  kept  his  ardent  soul  through  life  from  every  error  free  ? 
Approach!  behold!  nay,  worship  there  the  image  of  his  love, 
The  heavenly  Queen  who  reigneth  all  the  sacred  hosts  above, 
Nor  wonder  that  around  his  bier  there  lingers  such  a  light, 
For  the  spotless  one  that  sleepeth  WAS  THE  BLESSED  VIRGIN'S 
KNIGHT  ! 


AMERGIN'S  ANTHEM  ON  DISCOVERING  INNISFAIL. 

BEHOLD!  behold  the  prize 
Which  westward  yonder  lies ! 
Doth  it  not  blind  your  eyes 

Like  the  sun  ? 
By  vigil  through  the  night, 
By  valor  in  the  fight, 
By  learning  to  unite 

T  may  be  won!  't  maybe  won! 
By  learning  to  unite,  't  may  be  won! 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  M'GEE.  367 

Of  this,  in  Scythian  vales, 
Seers  told  prophetic  tales, 
Until  our  Father's  sails 

Quick  uprose; 

But  the  gods  did  him  detain 
In  the  gen'rous  land  of  Spain, 
Where  in  peace  his  bones  remain 

With  his  foes,  with  his  foes — 
Where  in  peace  his  bones  remain  with  his  foes. 

Sad  Scotia!  mother  dear! 

Cease  to  shed  the  mournful  tear — 

Behold  the  hour  draws  near 

He  foretold; 

And,  ye  men,  with  one  accord, 
Drop  the  oar  and  draw  the  sword, 
For  he  only  shall  be  lord 

Who  is  bold,  who  is  bold — 
He  only  shall  be  lord  who  is  bold ! 

They  may  shroud  it  up  in  gloom 
Like  a  spirit  in  the  tomb, 
But  we  hear  the  voice  of  doom 

As  it  cries; 

Let  the  cerements  be  burst, 
And  from  thy  bonds  accursed, 
Isle  of  Isles,  the  fairest,  first, 

Arise!  arise! 
Isle  of  Isles,  the  fairest,  first,  arise! 


368  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

Couch  the  oar  and  strike  the  sail, 
Ye  warriors  of  the  Gael ! 
Draw  the  sword  for  Innisfail! 

Dash  ashore ! 

With  such  a  prize  to  gain, 
Who  would  sail  the  seas  again! 
Innisfail  shall  be  our  Spain 

Evermore!  evermore! 
Innisfail  shall  be  our  Spain  evermore! 


THE  CELTS. 

LONG,  long  ago,  beyond  the  misty  space 

Of  twice  a  thousand  years, 
In  Erin  old  there  dwelt  a  mighty  race, 

Taller  than  Roman  spears; 
Like  oaks  and  towers,  they  had  a  giant  grace, 

Were  fleet  as  deers, 
With  winds  and  wave  they  made  their  'biding-placer 

These  Western  shepherd-seers. 

Their  ocean-god  was  Man-a-nan,  M'Lir, 

Whose  angry  lips, 
In  their  white  foam,  full  often  would  inter 

Whole  fleets  of  ships; 
Cromah,  their  day -god  and  their  thunderer, 

Made  morning  and  eclipse; 
Bride  was  their  queen  of  song,  and  unto  her 

They  pray'd  with  fire-touch 'd  lips. 


THOMAS  D'AKCY  M'GEE.  369 

Great  were  their  deeds,  their  passions,  and  their  sports; 

With  clay  and  stone 
They  piled  on  strath  and  shore  those  mystic  forts 

Not  yet  overthrown; 
On  cairn-crown'd  hills  they  held  their  council-courts; 

While  youths  alone, 
With  giant  dogs,  explored  the  elk  resorts, 

And  brought  them  down. 

Of  these  was  Finn,  the  father  of  the  bard 

Whose  ancient  song 
Over  the  clamor  of  all  change  is  heard, 

Sweet- voiced  and  strong. 
Finn  once  o'ertook  Granu,  the  golden-hair'd, 

The  fleet  and  young; 
From  her  the  lovely,  and  from  him  the  fear'd, 

The  primal  poet  sprung. 

Ossian !  two  thousand  years  of  mist  and  change 

Surround  thy  name — 
Thy  Finian  heroes  now  no  longer  range 

The  hills  of  fame. 
The  very  name  of  Finn  and  Gaul  sound  strange — 

Yet  thine  the  same — 
By  miscalPd  lake  and  desecrated  grange — 

Remains,  and  shall  remain! 

The  Druid's  altar  and  the  Druid's  creed 

We  scarce  can  trace, 
There  is  not  left  an  undisputed  deed 

Of  all  your  race, 


370  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

Save  your  majestic  song,  which  hath  their  speed, 

And  strength  and  grace; 
In  that  sole  song  they  live,  and  love,  and  bleed — 

It  bears  them  on  through  space. 

Oh,  inspired  giant!  shall  we  e'er  behold 

In  our  own  time 
One  fit  to  speak  your  spirit  on  the  wold, 

Or  seize  your  rhyme  ? 
One  pupil  of  the  past,  as  mighty  soul'd 

As  in  the  prime, 
Were  the  fond,  fair,  and  beautiful,  and  bold — 

They  of  your  song  sublime ! 

THE   IRISH   WIFE. 

I  WOULD  not  give  my  Irish  wife  for  all  the  darnes  of  the  Saxon 

land —  * 

I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife  for  the  Queen  of  France's  hand: 
For  she  to  me  is  dearer  than  castles  strong,  or  land,  or  life — 
An  outlaw,  but  I'm  near  her! — to  love,  till  death,  my  Irish  wife! 

Oh !  what  would  be  this  home  of  mine — a  ruin'd,  hermit-haunted 
place — 

But  for  the  light  that  nightly  shines  upon  its  walls  from  Kath- 
leen's face  ? 

What  comfort  in  a  mine  of  gold — what  pleasure  in  a  royal  life — 

If  the  heart  within  lay  dead  and  cold — if  I  could  not  wed  my 
Irish  wife  ? 

I  knew  the  law  forbade  the  banns — I  knew  my  king  abhorred 

her  race — 
Who  never  bent  before  their  clans,  must  bow  before  their  ladies' 

grace. 


THOMAS  D'ABCY  M'GEE.  371 

Take  all  my  forfeited  domain;  I  cannot  wage,  with  kinsmen, 

strife; 
Take  knightly  gear  and  noble  name, — but  I  will  keep  my  Irish 

wife! 

My  Irish  wife  has  clear  blue  eyes — my  heaven  by  day,  my  stars 

by  night — 
And  twin-like  truth  and  fondness  lie  within  her  swelling  bosom 

white. 
My  Irish  wife  has  golden  hair — Apollo's  harp  had  once  such 

strings — 
Apollo's  self  might  pause  to  hear  her  bird-like  carol  when  she 

sings! 

I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife  for  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon 

land — 

I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife  for  the  Queen  of  France's  hand ! 
For  she  to  me  is  dearer  than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life — 
In  death  I  would  be  near  her,  and  rise — beside  my  Irish  wife! 


IF  WILL  HAD  WINGS,  HOW  FAST  I'D  FLEE. 

IF  will  had  wings,  how  fast  I'd  flee 
To  the  home  of  my  heart  o'er  the  seething  sea ! 
If  wishes  were  power — if  words  were  spells, 
I'  d  be  this  hour  where  my  own  love  dwells. 

My  own  love  dwells  in  the  storied  land, 
Where  the  Holy  Wells  sleep  in  yellow  sand; 
And  the  emerald  lustre  of  Paradise  beams 
Over  homes  that  cluster  round  singing  streams. 


372  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

I,  sighing,  alas!  exist  alone — 
My  youth  is  as  grass  on  an  unsunn'd  stone, 
Bright  to  the  eye,  but  unfelt  below — 
As  sunbeams  that  lie  over  Arctic  snow. 

My  heart  is  a  lamp  that  love  must  relight, 
Or  the  world's  fire-damp  will  quench  it  quite. 
In  the  breast  of  my  dear  my  life-tide  springs — 
Oh,  I'd  tarry  none  here,  if  will  had  wings. 

For  she  never  was  weary  of  blessing  me, 
When  morn  rose  dreary  on  thatch  and  tree; 
She  evermore  chanted  her  song  of  faith, 
When  darkness  daunted  on  hill  and  heath. 

If  will  had  wings,  how  fast  I'd  flee 
To  the  home  of  my  heart  o'er  the  seething  sea ! 
If  wishes  were  power — if  words  were  spells, 
I'd  be  this  hour  where  my  own  love  dwells. 

A  LEGEND  OF  ST.  PATRICK. 

SEVEN  weary  years  in  bondage  the  young  St.  Patrick  pass'd, 
Till  the  sudden  hope  came  to  him  to  break  his  bonds  at  last; 
On  the  Antrim  hills  reposing  with  the  North  star  overhead 
As  the  grey  dawn  was  disclosing  "  I  trust  in  God,"  he  said — 
"  My  sheep  will  find  a  shepherd  and  my  master  find  a  slave, 
But  my  mother  has  no  other  hope,  but  me,  this  side  the  grave." 

Then  girding  close  his  mantle,  and  grasping  fast  his  wand, 
He  sought  the  open  ocean  through  the  by-ways  of  the  land. 
The  berries  from  the  hedges  on  his  solitary  way, 
And  the  cresses  from  the  waters  were  his  only  food  by  day. 


THOMAS  D'ARCY  M'GEE.  373 

The  cold  stone  was  his  pillow,  and  the  hard  heath  was  his  bed, 
Till  looking  from  Benbulben,  he  saw  the  sea  outspread. 

He  saw  that  ancient  ocean,  unfathomed  and  unbound, 
That  breaks  on  Erin's  beaches  with  so  sorrowful  a  sound. 
There  lay  a  ship  at  Sligo  bound  up  the  Median  sea, 
"  God  save  you,  master  mariner,  will  you  give  berth  to  me  ? 
I  have  no  gold  to  pay  thee,  but  Christ  will  pay  thee  yet." 
Loud   laughed   that  foolish  mariner,  "Nay,  nay,  He   might 
forget!" 

"  Forget!  oh,  not  a  favor  done  to  the  humblest  one, 

Of  all  His  human  kindred,  can  'scape  th'  Eternal  Son!" 

In  vain  the  Christian  pleaded,  the  willing  sail  was  spread, 

His  voice  no  more  was  heeded  than  the  sea-birds  overhead — 

And  as  the  vision  faded,  the  ship  against  the  sky, 

On  the  briny  rocks  the  Captive  prayed  to  God  to  let  him  die. 

But  God,  whose  ear  is  open  to  catch  the  sparrow's  fall, 
At  the  sobbing  of  his  servant  frowned,  along  the  waters  all — 
The  billows  rase  in  wonder  and  smote  the  churlish  crew, 
And  around  the  ship  the  thunder  like  battle-arrows  flew; 
The  screaming  sea-fowl's  clangor,  in  Kishcorran's  inner  caves, 
Was  hushed  before  the  anger  of  the  tempest-trodden  waves 

Like  an  eagle-hunted  gannet,  the  ship  drove  back  amain, 
To  where  the  Christian  captive  sat  in  solitude  and  pain — 
"  Come  in,"  they  cried,  "  oh,  Christian,  we  need  your  company, 
For  it  was  sure  your  angry  God  that  met  us  out  at  sea." 
Then  smiled  the  gentle  heavens,  and  doffed  their  sable  veil 
Then  sank  to  rest  the  breakers  and  died  away  the  gale. 

So  sitting  by  the  Pilot  the  happy  captive  kept 

On  his  rosary  a-reck'ning,  while  the  seamen  sung  or  slept. 


374  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Before  the  winds  propitious  past  Achill,  south  by  Ara, 

The  good  ship  gliding   left  behind  Hiar  Connaught  like  an 

arrow — 

From  the  southern  brow  of  Erin  they  shoot  the  shore  of  Gaul, 
And  in  holy  Tours,  Saint  Patrick  findeth  freedom,   friends, 

and  all. 

In  holy  Tours  he  findeth  home  and  Altars,  friends  and  all; 

There  matins  hail  the  morning,  sweet  bells  to  vespers  call; 

There's  no  lord  to  make  him  tremble,  no  magician  to  endure, 

No  need  he  to  dissemble  in  the  pious  streets  of  Tours; 

But  ever,  as  he  rises  with  the  morning's  early  light, 

And  still  ere  while  he  sleepeth,  when  the  North  star  shines  at 

night; 

When  he  sees  the  angry  ocean  by  the  tempest  trod , 
He  murmurs  in  devotion — ' '  Fear  nothing !  Trust  to  God ! " 


SAMUEL   LOVER 

• 

POET,  PAINTER    AND    NOVELIST. 

COVERS  are  given  to  poetry,"  wrote  Shak- 
speare,  and  the  subject  of  our  memoir  was 
no  exception  to  the  general  rule.  On  the  24th  of 
February,  1797,  Samuel  Lover  was  born  in  the  city 
of  Dublin.  His  parents  were  people  of  means  and 
education.  His  first  studies  were  made  at  a  boys' 
academy  in  his  native  city,  where  he  applied  him- 
self with  so  much  ardor  that  his  health  gave  way, 
and,  acting  on  a  physician's  advice,  his  parents  pro- 
cured him  a  comfortable  lodging  with  a  farmer  in 
the  County  Wicklow,  where  he  could  enjoy  fresh  air 
and  plenty  of  exercise.  At  this  plastic  period  the 
wild  and  beautiful  scenery  of  Wicklow  made  a  deep 
and  lasting  impression  on  his  mind.  Rambling  at 
will  among  the  romantic  vales,  and  conversing  with 
the  noble  and  generous  peasantry,  he  gained  not  only 
physical  strength  but  also  a  large  fund  of  knowledge 
relative  to  the  habits  and  customs  of  the  people 
whose  traits  he  was  destined  to  describe  in  song  and 
story. 

The  memory  of  his  sojourn  in  Wicklow  remained 

(375) 


376 


IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 


with  Lover,  and  in  after  years  he  gave  to  it  a  more 
tangible  form  in  these  verses,  entitled: 


MY  MOUNTAIN  HOME. 

MY  mountain  home !   rny  mountain  home ! 

Dear  are  thy  hills  to  me ! 
Where  first  my  childhood  loved  to  roam — 

Wild  as  the  summer  bee; 
The  summer  bee  may  gather  sweet 

From  flowers  in  sunny  prime ; 
And  memory  brings  with  wing  as  fleet, 

Sweet  thoughts  of  early  time. 
Still  fancy  bears  me  to  the  hills 

Where  childhood  loved  to  roam— 
I  hear,  I  see  your  sparkling  rills, 

My  own,  my  mountain  home! 


SAMUEL  LOVER.  377 

At  the  age  of  sixteen  Samuel  was  taken  from 
school  and  placed  in  his  father's  office,  there  to  be 
initiated  into  the  keeping  of  accounts — uncongenial 
business  for  a  poet ! — and  so  it  proved  in  the  case  of 
young  Lover,  who  gave  more  of  his  time  to  study 
and  sketching  than  to  his  father's  accounts.  For 
this  his  father  remonstrated  with  him,  but  to  no 
purpose.  The  young  poet-painter  would  follow  the 
strong  bent  of  his  nature,  despite  all  the  remon- 
strances of  an  anxious  parent.  So,  with  the  firm 
resolution  of  cleaving  his  own  way  in  the  world  he 
left  the  paternal  mansion  and  patiently  applied  him- 
self to  the  study  of  art.  For  three  years  he  labored 
with  indomitable  zeal  and  perseverance,  during  all 
this  time  supporting  himself  principally  by  copying 
music  and  sketching  portraits,  which  in  those  days 
were  in  good  demand.  Like  Gerald  Griffin,  young 
Lover  more  than  once  felt  the  pangs  of  want;  but  his 
purpose  never  weakened,  even  in  the  darkest  hour 
of  adversity. 

Having  spent  three  years  in  study  he  came  before 
the  public  as  a  marine  and  miniature  painter.  He 
was  then  only  twenty  years  old,  and  towards  the  close 
of  1818  he  became  the  most  popular  artist  in  Dublin. 
In  literary  circles  he  was  also  recognized  as  a  man 
of  considerable  poetic  genius;  and,  when  Moore 
visited  his  native  city,  the  citizens  invited  him  to 


378  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

write  a  poem  for  the  occasion.  On  the  evening  of 
the  banquet  in  honor  of  the  great  Irish  melodist, 
Lover  was  there  with  his  song  brimful  of  Irish 
humor. 

The  song  describes  a  caucus  of  the  gods,  who  were 
to  elect  a  poet  laureate  for  Mount  Olympus. 

Scott,  Southey,  Lord  Byron  and  Campbell  were 
nominated  for  the  exalted  position  and  received  some 
votes,  but  Moore  was  the  successful  candidate.  We 
have  room  here  for  three  or  four  verses  only: 

T  other  day  Jove  exclaimed,  with  a  nod  most  profound, 
While  the  gods  of  Olympus  in  state  sat  around, 
"I  have  fully  resolved,  after  weighty  reflection, 
To  soon  set  a-going  a  poet's  election. " 
"  A  good  thought,  Jupiter  boy!" 

While  the  gods  were  discussing  matters  appertain- 
ing to  election,  Juno  put  in  a  claim  for  woman's  rights: 

"  I  request,  though,"  said  Juno,  "  you'll  let  it  be  known 
Why  this  right  of  election  the  gods  have  alone; 
On  this  point  as  on  others  I  differ  from  you , 
And  insist  every  goddess  shall  have  a  vote,  too." 
' '  Brave  Juno !  stand  up  for  your  rights. " 

Then  Jupiter  said,  "  Let  it  be  so,  my  dear, 
Let  th'  election  commence;  bid  the  poets  appear; 
The  polling  concluded,  whoever  is  found 
To  have  carried  most  votes  shall  our  poet  be  crowned." 
"  Fair  play,  Jupiter  boy!" 


SAMUEL   LOVER.  379 

Here  each  delegate  introduced  some  favorite : 

But  Mercury  said  he  ' '  should  now  bring  in  sight 

A  bard  who  was  every  one's  pride  and  delight — 

Who  Melpomene,  Venus,  Thalia,  could  lure; 

They  all  knew  who  he  meant,  and  so  need  he  say  Moore  ?" 

Some  time  after  the  festivities  of  this  evening 
Moore  desired  to  be  introduced  to  the  rising  poet, 
whom  he  warmly  thanked  for  the  high  compliment 
he  had  received  on  his  return  from  abroad.  Moore's 
mother  requested  a  copy  of  the  verses ;  and  ever  after 
that.  Lover  remained  an  esteemed  friend  of  the  Moore 
family 

His  repution  as  a  portrait  painter  being  established, 
and  with  a  fast-increasing  fame  as  a  poet,  Lover  mar- 
ried a  cultured  young  lady  named  Miss  Berrel,  the 
daughter  of  a  Dublin  architect,  a  man  of  marked 
ability  and  liberal  means.  The  Berrels  were  an  old 
Catholic  family,  very  much  devoted  to  the  ancient 
faith;  and  Lover,  who  was  born  and  raised  a  Protes- 
tant, had  no  difficulty  in  promising  never  to  inter- 
fere with  his  wife  in  the  full  and  free  exercise  of  her 
religion.  He  kept  his  promise,  and  his  domestic  life 
was  a  happy  one. 

In  1828  he  became  Secretary  of  the  Royal  Hiber- 
nian Academy,  and  faithfully  discharged  the  duties 
of  that  office  up  to  the  time  of  his  removal  to  Lon- 
don, where  the  latter  part  of  his  life  was  spent. 


380  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Dividing  his  time  about  equally  between  the  brush 
and  pen,  paintings,  poems  and  stories  issued  from 
his  studio  in  rapid  succession,  and  for  each  piece  of 
work  the  compensation  received  was  ample.  His 
many-sided  mind  developed  some  new  talent  almost 
every  month;  and  not  the  least  profitable  was  the 
aptitude  he  had  for  caricaturing,  in  a  humorous  way, 
certain  politicians  of  his  time.  His  "  Irish  Horn 
Book,"  published  in  1831,  illustrates  this  statement. 
This  book  contained  many  clever  etchings  by  Lover, 
a^id  most  of  the  satirical  articles  were  from  his 
trenchant  pen. 

In  1832  appeared  his  "  Legends  and  Stories  of  Ire- 
land," chiefly  made  up  of  articles  which  he  had  writ- 
ten for  the  magazines.  The  same  year  he  painted  a 
picture  of  the  celebrated  violinist,  Paganini,  which 
won  a  world-wide  fame.  This  portrait,  when  sent 
the  following  year  to  the  Art  Exhibition  at  the  Royal 
Academy,  London,  attracted  general  attention  and 
took  the  prize  from  the  miniatures  of  Ross  and  the 
renowned  Thorburn.  Having  painted  very  fine  por- 
traits of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  Lord  Cloncurry, 
Sir  John  Conroy  and  others,  he  was  invited  by  the 
Duchess  of  Kent  to  paint  a  portrait  of  Princess  Vic- 
toria. Circumstances,  however,  which  he  could  not 
control  prevented  his  going  to  England.  In  failing 
to  go  to  England  for  this  purpose  it  was  said  he  lost 


SAMUEL  LOVER.  381 

a  great  opportunity,  as  he  might  have  gained  for 
himself  the  title  of  "  Portrait-painter  to  her  gracious 
Majesty."  Lover,  however,  was  both  too  patriotic 
and  sensible  to  attach  much  value  to  such  a  distinc- 
tion. When  it  was  noised  abroad  that  such  an  offer 
was  made,  a  Dublin  punster  remarked  that  in  case 
of  the  Irishman's  acceptance  the  "  Court  chronicler 
would  have  to  announce  a  Lover  instead  of  a  Hayter* 
as  the  incumbent  of  the  office." 

He  settled  permanently  in  London  in  1837,  where 
he  devoted  most  of  his  time  to  hard  work.  Among 
his  intimate  friends  at  that  time  were  Rev.  Dr.  Crolly, 
Father  Prout,  Mrs.  Jamieson,  Miss  Landon,  Lady 
Blessington  and  Thomas  Campbell,  the  poet. 

Here  his  pen  was  kept  as  busy  as  his  brush,  and 
his  brain  seldom  rested.  He  wrote  songs  for  operas 
and  stories  for  half  a  dozen  magazines.  For  Mme. 
Vestris,  then  very  popular  in  England,  he  wrote  and 
set  to  music,  "  Under  the  Rose,"  "  The  Angel's  Whis- 
per," "  The  Fqur-Leaved  Shamrock,"  "  The  Land  of 
the  West,"  and  many  other  pieces  which  became  im- 
mensely popular  and  were  sung  daily  in  the  streets 
of  London.  In  London  he  dramatized  his  first  real 
novel,  "  Rory  O'More,"  and  its  representation  on 
the  stage  was  a  complete  success.  For  one  hundred 
and  eight  nights  it  drew  a  crowded  house.  Speaking 

*  Sir  George  Hayter  then  held  the  office. 


382  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

of  its  popularity  the  Athenteum  said  that  "  Rory 
O'More — a  triple  glory  in  song,  story  and  drama — 
was  the  attraction  of  the  day,  and  that  Samuel  Lover 
seemed  to  communicate  his  own  sweet  temperament 
to  all  around  him." 

In  this  story  the  author  endeavored  to  do  justice 
to  the  character  of  his  countrymen,  and  of  his  efforts 
an  English  magazine  says: 

"  Hearty,  honest,  comic,  sensible,  tender,  faithful  and  coura- 
geous Rory  is  the  true  ideal  of  the  Irish  peasant — the  humble 
hero  who  embodies  so  much  of  the  best  of  the  national  char- 
acter, and  lifts  simple  emotion  almost  to  the  height  of  ripened 
judgment. " 

Lover's  principal  recreation  consisted  in  giving 
informal  receptions  to  his  intimate  friends  and 
associates.  It  is  related  that  on  being  presented  at 
one  of  those  social  gathering  to  Madame  Malibran, 
the  brilliant  artiste  exclaimed  in  broken  English: 
"  Will  you  lend  me  the  loan  of  a  gridiron?  " 

At  one  of  his  little  entertainment^,  a  young  lady 
of  high  social  standing  who  had  been  for  years  an 
ardent  admirer  of  the  Irish  people  remarked  that 
she  was  meant  for  an  Irishwoman. 

"  Cross  the  channel,  Madam,"  said  Lover,  "  and 
thousands  of  people  well  say  you  were  meant  for  an 
Irishman." 

A  great  success  as  miniature  painter,  Lover  now 


SAMUEL  LOVER.  383 

turned  his  attention  to  song-writing,  and  in  that  also 
he  excelled. 

The  Dublin  University  Magazine  has  well  said  that 
"  as  poet,  painter  and  novelist,  Lover  won  sufficient 
celebrity  to  make  the  fame  of  three  different  men." 

In  the  preface  to  the  fifth  edition  of  his  "  Poetical 
Works,"  he  designates  a  few  of  the  rules  that  should 
be  observed  in  order  to  write  a  good  song. 

"  A  song,"  he  says,  "  must  be  constructed  for  sing- 
ing rather  than  for  reading;  and  hence,  to  accommo- 
date the  vocalist,  it  should  be  built  up  of  words  hav- 
ing as  many  vowels  and  as  free  from  guttural  and 
hissing  sounds  as  possible." 

Moore  and  Burns,  he  considers,  masters  of  the  art 
of  song-writing,  and  points  out  the  many  beauties  of 
their  songs  by  reason  of  the  liberal  use  of  open- 
vo welled  words. 

Of  the  three  hundred  poems  written  by  himself, 
all  but  fifty  are  songs  adapted  to  old  airs — generally 
native  Irish  airs.  It  is  impossible  to  attempt  any- 
thing like  a  criticism  of  these  within  the  limits  of 
this  brief  paper;  but,  in  passing,  it  may  be  said  that 
"Rory  O'More,"  "The  Angel's  Whisper"  and  "The 
Fairy  Boy  "  are  favorites — and  very  deservedly  so — 
wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken.  Unlike 
the  hedge  poets  he  seldom  indulged  in  classical 
allusions.  His  metaphors  and  similes  are  home- 


384  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

spun,  the  very  soul  of  simplicity — and  all  the  better 
for  that. 

The  late  Dr.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  who  knew  Lover 
well  and  was  qualified  to  pass  judgment  on  his 
works,  wrote  in  the  Philadelphia  Press: 

"  Samuel  Lover  was  the  author  of  many  admirable  ballads, 
humorous  and  pathetic,  which  are  likely  to  last  even  as  long 
as  Moore's  beautiful  melodies.  I  need  only  mention  *  Molly 
Carew,'  '  Widow  Machree,'  '  The  Low  Back  Car/  '  The  Bowld 
Sojer  Boy,'  and  the  'Four-leaved  Shamrock.'  He  also  wrote 
novels  and  plays,  of  which  '  Handy  Andy '  is  the  best  known, 
owing  to  its  being  several  times  dramatized. 

"Incredible  as  it  may  appear,"  the  same  distinguished  writer 
goes  on  to  say,  "  '  Handy  Andy,'  the  man  and  his  nickname, 
was  not  a  mere  creation  and  creature  of  the  imagination. 
Years  before  Lover  wrote  anything  concerning  that  singular 
character  I  had  heard  a  good  deal  about  him.  My  knowledge 
arose  in  this  manner: 

"  One  stormy  day,  traveling  in  the  mail-coach  from  the 
County  Cork  to  that  of  Limerick,  whither  I  was  going  to 
spend  the  Christmas  at  my  uncle's,  it  was  my  misfortune  to 
be  upset,  with  the  total  wreck  of  the  vehicle,  within  a  mile  of 
Kilmallock.  As  the  snow  was  three  feet  deep,  and  no  convey- 
ance could  be  obtained,  my  only  fellow-traveler  determined  that 
we  should  not  encounter  the  fatigue  of  walking  into  Kilmallock, 
but  spend  the  evening  in  the  only  tavern  of  the  little  village 
where  the  accident  had  happened. 

"  '  It's  a  plain  place,'  he  said,  *  but  they  can  supply  as  good  a 
rasher  of  bacon  and  eggs  as  ever  was  served  up;  and  their  beds 
are  clean  and  comfortable  to  a  degree. ' 


SAMUEL  LOVER.  385 

' '  It  required  little  persuasion  to  induce  me  to  act  on  this 
advice,  given  on  my  companion's  personal  experience,  and  we 
made  out  that  Christmas  Eve  in  the  little  village  tavern. 

"  Ere  we  parted  my  friend  told  me  that,  in  the  ancient  chiv- 
alry of  Ireland  there  were  four  hereditary  knights,  all  of  them 
Fitzgeralds  and  each  of  them  having  living  representatives. 
These  were  the  White  Knight,  the  Red  Knight,  the  Knight  of 
Kerry,  and  the  Knight  of  Glin.  He  himself  was  the  last  of 
these,  deriving  his  title  from  the  Castle  of  Glin,  which  stands 
in  the  center  of  a  fine  estate  near  the  River  Shannon,  and  has 
been  owned  by  one  branch  of  the  Fitzgerald  family  for  more 
than  six  hundred  years. 

' '  That  evening  as  we  sat  by  the  cheerful  turf  fire  in  the 
humble  hostelry  which  had  received  us,  the  Knight  of  Glin 
told  me  a  great  deal  about  Handy  Andy.  This  was  fully  thir- 
teen years  before  Mr.  Lover  had  introduced  that  worthy  to  the 
readers  of  Bentley's  Miscellany. 

"  '  His  name,'  the  Knight  said,  '  is  Andrew  Sullivan,  but  he 
had  such  a  propensity  for  doing  and  saying  things  in  a  way 
they  ought  not  to  be  done  or  said,  that  from  an  early  age  every 
one  spoke  of  him  and  to  him  as  '  *  Handy  Andy  " — he  being  the 
unhandiest  fellow  in  the  world.  His  misfortune  was  that  he 
took  everything  said  to  him  in  a  natural  sense.  One  morning 
when  I  was  shaving  with  cold  water,  Andy,  good-natured 
enough,  brought  me  up  a  small  jug  of  hot  water.  '  Where  am 
1  to  empty  this  ? '  he  asked ,  pointing  to  the  mug  of  cold  water 
I  had  been  using.  I  told  him  to  throw  it  out  of  the  window, 
(of  course,  meaning  the  water  only);  but  matter-of-fact  Andy 
raised  the  window,  and  pitched  not  only  the  water,  but  also  the 
China  mug  that  held  it,  into  the  yard  below,  and  then  looked 

26 


386  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

cheerfully  at  me  as  if  he  deserved  praise  for  having  carried  out 
my  instructions  to  the  letter. 

"  '  On  another  occasion  when  I  was  high  sheriff  of  the  county, 
I  had  to  give  a  big  dinner  at  Glin  Castle  to  the  Judges  of 
Assize,  the  Grand  Jury  and  the  members  of  the  bar.  Several 
baskets  of  champagne  for  consumption  on  that  occasion  were 
obtained  from  the  city  of  Limerick.  There  was  need  of  many 
servants  to  wait  on  table,  and  Andy  was  put  into  livery. 
Unfortunately  my  caterer  was  an  Englishman,  who  seeing 
Andy  doing  nothing,  called  out:  '  You  Hoirish  feller  there,  just 
put  this  champagne  into  that  'ere  tub  of  h'ice,  h'and  look  shard 
that  no  feller  takes  some  of  it !' 

"  'Andy  literally  carrying  out  his  instructions  did  put  the 
wine  into  the  tub,  uncorking  bottle  after  bottle  of  it  to  the 
extent  of  two  dozen;  and  when  champagne  was  called  for  at 
dinner,  dragged  in  the  tub,  and  told  how  he  really  had  poured 
the  wine  into  the  ice,  as  he  had  been  ordered.  Fortunately 
there  was  more  of  the  generous  fluid,  so  no  very  great  harm 
was  done.  It  was  impossible,  no  matter  how  angry  one  might 
be ,  to  avoid  laughing  at  the  numerous  and  curious  blunders  of 
Handy  Andy.  He  has  grown  gray  in  my  service,  and  though 
I  dismiss  him  every  three  months  or  so  on  some  new  aggrava- 
tion, he  slips  back  again  and  I  cannot  continue  angry  with  him/ 

"  Many  other  illustrations  of  this  original  character  were 
told  me  by  the  Knight,  but  my  limited  space  does  not  permit  me 
to  mention  them." 

These  and  many  other  ludicrous  incidents  in  the 
life  of  Handy  Andy,  Mr.  Lover  strung  together  on  a 
slender  thread,  and,  in  the  end,  landed  his  hero  up 
among  the  peers  of  the  realm — the  proper  place  for 
a  booby  to  end  his  days. 


SAMUEL  LOVER.  387 

Lover's  eyesight  began  to  fail  in  1844,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  abandon  painting  altogether,  though  this 
was  his  chief  means  of  support.  In  order  to  make 
up  for  the  loss  he  had  sustained  in  this  way,  he 
arranged  a  literary  and  musical  entertainment  which 
he  called  "  Irish  Evenings."  This  species  of  amuse- 
ment was  not  so  common  in  those  days  as  it  is  with 
us,  and  the  "  Evenings "  took  immensely  both  in 
England  and  Ireland.  This  entertainment  consisted 
of  an  olla  podrida  of  his  own  most  popular  songs  and 
stories.  He  selected  two  young  ladies  to  assist  him 
with  the  songs,  while  he  always  kept  for  himself  the 
recital  of  the  stories.  The  proceeds  from  this  source 
relieved  him  for  a  time  from  financial  embarrass- 
ments, and  the  enthusiastic  receptions  which  awaited 
him  everywhere  he  appeared  in  Ireland  were  ex- 
tremely gratifying  to  his  genial  Irish  heart. 

He  repeated  his  "  Evenings  "  throughout  the  large 
cities  of  the  United  States  in  the  fall  of  1846.  Here 
he  did  not  meet  with  that  measure  of  success  that, 
attended  his  efforts  at  home,  owing  principally  to 
the  fact  that  entertainments  of  that  character  were 
nothing  new  in  our  Eastern  cities,  even  at  that  early 
day.  His  mission  to  the  United  States  was  not  a 
failure,  however,  and,  unlike  so  many  literary  snobs 
who  come  out  from  "h'old  H'england"  in  the  capacity 


383  IKISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

of  tourists,  he  was  able  to  appreciate  the  worth  and 
progress  of  our  Republican  institutions. 

At  Niagara  Falls  he  wrote  a  poem  commencing: 

Nymph  of  Niagara!  sprite  of  the  mist! 
With  a  wild  magic,  my  brow  thou  hast  kiss'd; 
I  am  thy  slave,  and  my  mistress  art  thou, 
For  thy  wild  kiss  of  magic  is  yet  on  my  brow. 

During  his  visit  to  America,  Lover's  wife  died,  and 
shortly  after  his  return  to  England  the  death  of  his 
favorite  daughter  made  his  life  desolate,  and  unfitted 
him  for  a  long  time  for  any  kind  of  work. 

Subsequently,  his  publishers  induced  him  to  edit  a 
volume  of  poems  containing  the  best  selections  from 
the  bards  of  Erin.  This  work  he  accomplished  in  a 
very  creditable  manner.  His  notes  and  comments 
on  the  different  epochs  of  Irish  poetry  are  to  the 
present  day  models  of  English  composition. 

When  the  Burns'  Centenary  Festival  was  held  in 
Glasgow,  January,  1859,  Lover  was  invited  to  repre- 
sent the  poets  of  Ireland  there.  Called  on  to  respond 
to  "the  ladies,"  he  remarked  that  it  was  proper,  meet 
and  natural  that  a  lover  should  be  chosen  to  reply  to 
such  a  toast. 

"  Rival  Rhymes  in  Honor  of  Burns,"  are  the  pro- 
ducts of  his  pen,  though  published  under  the  nom  de 
plume  of  Ben  Trovato.  These  are  imitations  of  Father 
Prout,  Longfellow,  Hood,  Thackeray,  Campbell  and 


SAMUEL  LOVER.  389 

Lord  Macaulay.  In  one  of  these  imitations  he  felici- 
tiously  enumerates  the  different  names  by  which 
poets  go  in  different  countries : 

In  France  they  called  them  Troubadours, 

Or  Menestrels  by  turns; 
The  Scandinavians  called  them  Scalds, 

The  Scotchmen  call  their's  Burns. 

A  writer  of  his  acquaintance  having  given  his 
opinion  on  the  relative  merits  of  Moore  and  the 
author  of  Rory  O'More,  Lover  replied- 

' '  I  think  there  is  more  of  the  '  touch  of  nature '  in  my  writ- 
ings than  in  his.  I  think,  also,  there  is  more  feeling,  and 
beyond  all  doubt  lam  much  more  Irish." 

Though  writing  to  a  Scotchman,  Lover  seemed  to 
have  felt  proud  of  his  Irish  blood,  birth  and  feeling, 
and  he  has  left  proof  positive  that  he  loved  his  race 
and  country. 

As  mentioned  heretofore,  Lover  was  fond  of 
entertaining  his  literary  friends  at  his  own  residence 
in  London.  Very  often  he  gave  them  not  only  a 
good  dinner,  but  a  little  to  pay  their  craving  credi- 
tors also.  Among  his  guests  one  evening  was  a 
needy  friend  whom  Lover  could  not  accommodate 
with  "  a  loan." 

After  supper  was  over,  and  while  chatting  over 
their  punch,  it  was  agreed  upon  that  each  one  should 
write  a  verse  embodying  his  individual  opinion  of 


390  IBISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

the  host.  Slips  of  paper  were  procured,  and,  in  a 
short  time,  everybody's  brain  and  pencil  went  to 
work.  The  nameless  verses  were  all  deposited  in  a 
satchel,  well  shaken,  then  extracted  one  by  one  and 
read  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  company.  Among 
many  flattering  squibs  the  following  was  found : 

What  he  is  IVe  had  cause  to  discover, 

And  thus  doth  experience  tend — 
He  may  be  sublime  as  a  Lover, 

But  very  so-so  as  a  friend. 

An  American  writer  describes  the  poet,  painter 
and  novelist  in  the  Atlas,  published  in  Boston  at  the 

time  of  Lover's  visit  to  the  States : 

• 

' '  But  who  is  that  lively  little  gentleman  whom  everybody  is 
shaking  hands  with,  and  who  shakes  hands  with  eveiybody  in 
turn?  He  is  here,  there  and  everywhere,  chattering  away 
delightfully,  it  would  seem,  and  dispensing  smiles  and  arch 
looks  in  profusion.  How  his  black  eyes  twinkle,  and  what  fun 
there  is  in  his  face !  He  seems  brimful  and  running  over  with 
humor,  and  looks  as  if  Care  never  had  touched  him.  And  then 
listen  to  that  Milesian  brogue !  Reader,  perhaps  you  have  never 
heard  an  educated  Irishman  talk!  Well,  if  so,  you  have  lost  a 
treat.  That  natty,  dear  duck  of  a  man,  as  the  ladies  say,  is 
a  universal  favorite  everywhere.  He  is  at  once  poet,  painter, 
musician  and  novelist.  He  writes  songs,  sets  them  to  music, 
illustrates  them  with  his  pencil,  and  then  sings  them  as  no  one 
else  can. 

"  Hurrah!  we  have  Rory  O'More  in  our  midst.  Sam  Lover, 
I  beg  to  introduce  you  to  the  American  public." 


SAMUEL  LOVER.  391 

About  the  end  of  1867  close  application  to  work 
and  old  age  combined  began  to  tell  on  our  author's 
health,  which,  early  in  the  following  year  rapidly 
failed.  In  the  seventy-second  year  of  his  age  he 
calmly  passed  away,  on  the  6th  day  of  July,  1868,  at 
St.  Helier's,  Jersey,  England. 

On  the  15th  of  the  same  month  he  was  buried  in 
Kensal  Green,  London.  The  Marquis  of  Donegal  in 
command  of  the  Irish  Volunteers,  of  which  Lover 
was  an  old  member,  attended  his  funeral. 

We  cannot  close  this  memorial  of  one  who  did  so 
much  during  his  long  life  to  vindicate  his  country's 
right  to  the  proud  title  of  "  Queen  of  Song  "  without 
quoting  the  tablet  to  his  memory  placed  in  one  of 
the  aisles  of  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral,  Dublin.  The 
inscription  runs  thus: 

"In  memory  of  Samuel  Lover,  poet,  painter,  novelist  and 
composer,  who  in  the  exercise  of  a  genius  as  distinguished  in  its 
versatility  as  in  its  power,  by  his  pen  and  pencil  illustrated  so 
happily  the  characteristics  of  the  peasantry  of  his  country,  that 
his  name  will  ever  be  honorably  identified  with  Ireland." 

THE  FOUR-LEAVED   SHAMROCK. 

I'LL  seek  a  four-leaved  shamrock 

In  all  the  fairy  dells, 
And  if  I  find  the  charmed  leaves, 

Oh,  how  I'll  weave  my  spells. 


392  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

I  would  not  waste  my  magic  might 
On  diamond,  pearl  or  gold; 

For  treasures  tire  the  weary  sense — 
Such  triumph  is  but  cold. 

But  I  would  play  the  enchanter's  part 
In  casting  bliss  around; 

Oh !  not  a  tear  nor  aching  heart 
Should  in  the  world  be  found, 
Should  in  the  world  be  found. 

To  worth  I  would  give  honor, 

I'd  dry  the  mourner's  tears; 
And  to  the  pallid  lip  recall 

The  smile  of  happier  years. 
And  hearts  that  had  been  long  estranged, 

And  friends  that  had  grown  cold, 
Should  meet  again  Hike  parted  streams, 

And  mingle  as  of  old. 
Oh!   thus  I'd  play  the  enchanter's  part, 

Thus  scatter  bliss  around; 
And  not  a  tear  nor  aching  heart 

Should  in  the  world  be  found, 

Should  in  the  world  be  found. 

The  heart  that  had  been  mourning 

O'er  vanished  dreams  of  love, 
Should  see  them  all  returning, 

Like  Noah's  faithful  dove. 
And  Hope  should  launch  her  blessed  bark 

On  Sorrow's  dark'ning  sea, 
And  Mis'ry's  children  have  an  ark, 

And  saved  from  sinking  be. 


SAMUEL   LOVER.  393 

Oh!   thus  I'd  play  the  enchanter's  part, 

Thus  scatter  bliss  around , 
And  not  a  tear  nor  aching  heart 

Should  in  the  world  be  found, 

Should  in  the  world  be  found. 

RORY  O'MORE. 

YOUNG  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn, 
He  was  bold  as  a  hawk,  she  as  soft  as  the  dawn; 
He  wish'd  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease. 
"  Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,"  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry, 
(Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye), 
"  With  your  tricks  I  don't  know,  in  troth,  what  I'm  about; 
Faith  you've  teased  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak  inside  out." 
"  Oh!  Jewel,"  says  Rory,  "  that  same  is  the  way 
You've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day ; 
And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure? 
For  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,  "  don't  think  of  the  like, 

For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  sootherin'  Mike ; 

The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound — " 

"  Faith,"  says  Rory,  "  I'd  rather  love  you  than  the  ground." 

"  Now,  Rory,  I'll  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go; 

Sure  I  drame  ev'ry  night  that  I'm  hatin'  you  so!" 

"Oh,"  says  Rory,  "  that  same  I'm  delighted  to  hear, 

For  drames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my  dear; 

Oh!  jewel,  keep  dramin'  that  same  till  you  die, 

And  bright  mornin'  will  give  dirty  night  the  black  lie ! 

And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 

Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 


394  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

"  Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you've  tazed  me  enough, 
Sure  I've  thrash'd  for  your  sake  Dinny  Grimes  and  Jim  Duff; 
And  I've  made  myself  drinkin'  your  health  quite  a  baste, 
So  I  think  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  priest." 
Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  'round  her  neck, 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck, 
And  he  looked  in  her  eyes  that  were  beaming  with  light, 
And  he  kissed  her  sweet  lips; — don't  you  think  he  was  right  ? 
"Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir;  you'll  hug  me  no  more. 
That's  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kiss'd  me  before. " 
"  Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,  "to  make  sure, 
For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Rory  O'More. 

MOLLY  BAWN. 

OH,  Molly  Bawn,  why  leave  me  pining, 

Lonely  waiting  here  for  you ; 
The  stars  above  are  brightly  shining, 

Because  they've  nothing  else  to  do. 
The  flowers  late  were  open  keeping, 

To  try  a  rival  blush  with  you , 
But  their  mother,  Nature,  set  them  sleeping, 

With  their  rosy  faces  washed  with  dew. 

Oh,  Molly  Bawn — oh,  Molly  Bawn. 
The  pretty  flowers  were  made  to  bloom,  dear, 

And  the  pretty  stars  were  made  to  shine; 
The  pretty  girls  were  made  for  the  boys,  dear, 

And  maybe  you  were  made  for  mine.  • 
The  wicked  watch-dog  here  is  snarling, 

He  takes  me  for  a  thief,  you  see; 
He  knows  I'd  steal  you,  Molly,  Darling, 

And  then  ' '  transported  "  I  would  be. 

Oh,  Molly  Bawn — oh,  Molly  Bawn. 


SAMUEL  LOVEK.  395 


THE  ANGEL'S  WHISPER. 

A  BABY  was  sleeping, 

Its  mother  was  weeping, 
For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild,  raging  sea, 

And  the  tempest  was  swelling, 

Round  the  fisherman's  dwelling — 
And  she  cried:  "  Dermot,  darling,  oh!  come  back  to  me!" 

Her  beads  while  she  numbered, 

The  baby  still  slumber'd 
And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee; 

"Oh!   blest  be  that  warning, 

My  child's  sleep  adorning, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee. 

' '  And  while  they  are  keeping 

Bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 
Oh!  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me — 

And  say  thou  wouldst  rather 

They'd  watch  o'er  thy  father, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee." 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 

Saw  Dermot  returning, 
And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe's  father  to  see ; 

And  closely  caressing 

Her  child  with  a  blessing, 
Said:  "  I  knew  that  the  angels  were  whispering  with  thee. 


396  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

THE  FAIRY  BOY. 


[When  a  beautiful  child  pines  and  dies,  the  Irish  peasant  believes  the 
healthy  infant  has  been  stolen  by  the  fairies,  and  a  sickly  elf  left  in  its  place.] 


A  MOTHER  came,  when  stars  were  paling, 

Wailing  'round  a  lonely  spring; 
Thus  she  cried  while  tears  were  falling, 

Calling  on  the  fairy  King: 
"  Why  with  spells  my  child  caressing, 

Courting  him  with. fairy  joy; 
Why  destroy  a  mother's  blessing, 

Wherefore  steal  my  baby  boy  ? 

"  O'er  the  mountain,  through  the  wild  wood, 

Where  his  childhood  loved  to  play; 
Where  the  flowers  are  freshly  springing, 

There  I  wander,  day  by  day. 
"  There  I  wander,  growing  fonder 

Of  the  child  that  made  my  joy; 
On  the  echoes  wildly  calling, 

To  restore  my  fairy  boy. 

"  But  in  vain  my  plaintive  calling, 

Tears  are  falling  all  in  vain; 
He  now  sports  with  fairy  pleasure, 

He's  the  treasure  of  their  train! 
<c  Fare  thee  well,  my  child,  forever, 

In  this  world  I've  lost  my  joy; 
But  in  the  next  we  ne'er  shall  sever, 

There  I'll  find  my  angel  boy ! " 


REV.  FRANCIS  MAHONY 
(FATHER  PROUT). 

sHERE  are,  indeed,  few  pseudonyms  in  the 
broad  extent  of  English  literature  that  have 
attained  greater  celebrity  than  that  of  "  Father 
Prout,"  the  classic  sage  of  Watergrasshill,  near  Blar- 
ney. Even  the  renowned  names  of  Sir  Morgan 
O 'Dougherty  and  Barry  Cornwall  pale  before  that 
synonym  of  wit,  waggery,  and  linguistic  lore,  so 
often  appended  to  the  spiciest  articles  that  ever 
adorned  the  pages  of  Frazer's  Magazine. 

The  city  of  St.  Finbar,  on  the  "  banks  of  the  Lee/' 
reckons  this  literary  genius  among  the  number  of  its 
illustrious  sons.  In  that  delightful  old  capital  of 
Munster  he  was  born  in  the  year  1804,  of  parents 
who  were  neither  rich  nor  poor,  but  could  boast  of  a 
long  line  of  ancestors  whose  martial  renown  haloes 
the  vicinity  of  Dromore  Castle,  the  cunabulum  of  the 
sept  of  the  O'Mahonys,  in  the  Kingdom  of  Kerry. 
"  By  the  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee  "  Francis 
Sylvester  Mahony  grew  to  the  estate  of  a  gossoon,  and 
went  to  school,  where,  it  is  said,  "  he  picked  up  with 
equal  facility  the  Munster  brogue  and  the  rudiments 

of  an  education."     At  the  early  age  of  twelve  years, 

(397) 


REV.  FRANCIS   MAHONY.  399 

before  Frank  had  had  much  time  for  dreaming 
among  the  "  Groves  of  Blarney "  or  kissing  the 
"  Eloquent  Stone,"  being  destined  by  his  parents  for 
the  holy  priesthood,  he  was  shipped  off  to  the  Con- 
tinent and  placed  under  the  guidance  of  those  great 
masters  of  scholastic  learning,  the  Jesuit  Fathers, 
who  were  soon  compelled  to  recognize  the  brilliant 
talents  of  the  laughing,  lively  Cork  boy.  Under 
these  teachers,  both  in  St.  Acheul  and  at  their  semi- 
nary in  Paris,  Frank  was  wont  to  say  that  he 
"  breathed  a  very  atmosphere  of  Latinity  and  im- 
bibed Greek  with  as  much  facility  and  gusto  as  an 
Irish  beggarman  would  buttermilk."  However  dis- 
posed we  may  be  to  take  the  latter  part  of  this 
declaration  cum  grano  salis,  it  is  certain  that  those 
erudite  masters  of  belles-lettres  seldom  cultivated  a 
young  mind  more  fertile  and  susceptible  than  was 
that  of  the  future  author  of  the  "  Prout  Papers." 
Even  before  he  entered  the  Jesuit  novitiate  in  the 
suburbs  of  Paris,  where  he  was  destined  to  try  his 
vocation  for  the  Order,  he  could  turn  his  ideas  into 
Latin  hexameters  with  eloquence  and  ease,  while  he 
spoke  that  classic  tongue  with  a  fluency  and  accent 
which  would  do  credit  to  a  Roman  of  the  Augustan 
age.  French  and  Italian  were  to  him  a  second  ver- 
nacular, and  of  the  Germanic  language  and  literature 
he  was  by  no  means  ignorant. 


400  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

Having  received  deaconship  in  the  Jesuit  College 
at  Rome,  Rev.  Francis  Mahony  set  out  for  Ireland, 
from  which  he  had  been  so  long  absent;  but  on  his 
way  thither  he  was  told  by  no  less  a  personage  than 
the  Provincial  that  his  superiors  thought  that  the 
young  deacon  had  no  vocation — at  least  for  their 
Society — and  therefore  would  not  be  admitted  to  the 
priesthood  by  them. 

The  Rubicon  was  already  passed,  the  indelible 
character  was  stamped,  and,  undeterred  by  this  ad- 
monition, Frank  pursued  his  course  to  the  shores  of 
his  native  land  and  gained  admission  to  the  Jesuit 
College  of  Clongowes  Wood,  Kildare,  in  order  to  test 
still  further  his  vocation  to  labor  in  the  ranks  of 
Loyola's  sons;  for  hitherto  he  had  not  the  remotest 
intention  of  becoming  a  secular  priest.  Apropos  of 
a  secular  priest,  the  learned  padre  was  asked  by  the 
wits  of  Frazer's  Magazine,  soon  after  he  had  discon- 
tinued his  sacerdotal  functions,  for  the  definition  of 
a  "  circular  priest,"  when  he  immediately  answered: 

Ens  rotundum 

Per  universum  mundum, 

Nihil  agens,  sed  omnia  rapiens. 

There  is  more  of  a  display  of  learning  than  of  truth 
in  this  answer. 

In  September,  1830,  the  Roman  deacon  entered 
Clongowes  College  and  was  soon  promoted  to  the 


REV.  FRANCIS   MAHONY.  401 

Chair  of  Rhetoric  by  the  Rev.  Peter  Kenny,  then 
President  of  that  institution,  and  afterwards  known 
in  this  country  as  the  "  great  Jesuit  of  the  West." 
Among  his  rhetoricians  were  two  young  men  des- 
tined in  the  near  future  to  be  classed  among  the  con- 
tributors of  Frazer's  and  Bentley's,  and  to  impress 
the  names  of  John  Sheehan,  "  The  Irish  Whisky 
Drinker,"  and  F.  S.  Murphy  on  the  literary  records 
of  the  period. 

Soon  after  the  Rev.  Frank's  inauguration  at  Clon- 
gowes,  the  "  boys  got  a  free  day, "  for  which  a 
coursing  party  was  gotten  up,  and  the  master  of 
rhetoric,  at  the  head  of  his  disciples,  started  out 
bright  and  early,  making  a  bee  line  for  Maynooth, 
where  the  party  took  dinner.  On  their  return,  the 
learned  youths  were  entertained  at  the  house  of  a 
country  squire,  where  the  head  of  the  family  treated 
them  with  characteristic  Irish  generosity,  until  one 
of  the  guests  frankly  confessed  that  he  had  "no 
remembrance  of  the  number  of  songs  sung,  of  -patri- 
otic toasts  and  healths  proposed,  of  speeches  made, 
or  of  decanters  emptied."  The  party  broke  up  late, 
and,  starting  for  the  college,  they  were  overtaken  by 
a  terrible  thunderstorm  which  completely  unnerved 
the  majority  of  the  youths,  who,  fortunately,  were 
picked  up  in  the  nick  of  time  by  some  passing  dray- 
men, and  landed  about  midnight  at  the  gate  of  their 

27 


402  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

alma  mater.  This  luckless  episode  put  a  period  to 
the  career  of  Rev.  Frank  in  his  native  Isle,  and  in  a 
few  days  after  he  was  in  a  position  to  exclaim,  with 
the  hero  of  Virgil's  epic,  "  Feror  exul  in  altum;" 
and  he  might  have  added,  "  Ad  litora  Hibernise  nun- 
quam  rediturus,"  for,  living,  he  never  more  beheld 
the  shores  of  Ireland.  Arriving  in  the  Eternal  City, 
where  he  formed  the  acquaintance  of  his  distin- 
guished fellow- townsman,  Barry,  the  painter,  he 
resumed  and  completed  his  theological  studies,  and 
was  ordained  a  priest,  having  previously  obtained  an 
exeat  from  Dr.  Murphy,  the  bishop  of  his  native 
diocese.  As  a  priest  he  returned  to  London,  where 
he  acted  as  curate  to  the  celebrated  Dr.  Magee;  but 
after  due  consideration — consideration  which  came, 
alas  !  too  late — he  concluded  that  he  had  entered  the 
fold  without  being  among  those  of  whom  the  High 
Priest  said,  "  Ego  elegi  vos,"  and  thenceforth  re- 
frained from  obtruding  himself  on  the  sanctuary. 

The  belief  that  the  Rev.  Francis  Mahony  returned 
to  Ireland  after  his  ordination,  and  served  in  the 
capacity  of  curate  under  a  veritable  Father  Prout,  P.P. 
of  Watergrasshill,  whose  name  the  young  scribe 
assumed  in  writing  for  the  Cork  papers,  was  very 
common  at  one  time.  But  the  fact  is,  after  his  de- 
parture from  Clongowes  in  the  autumn  of  1830,  he 
never  returned  until  he  came  to  mingle  his  dust  with 


REV.  FRANCIS   MAHONY.  403 

the  ashes  of  his  sires  under  the  shadow  of  Shandon 
steeple,  whose  "  chimes  "  he  praised  in  exquisite  and 
immortal  verse. 

Though  Father  Prout,  forced  by  conscientious  con- 
siderations, retired  from  sacerdotal  duties,  he  always 
wore  a  dark  infra  genua  threadbare  coat,  for  which 
he  seemed  to  evince  as  much  attachment  as  did  his 
fellow-poet,  Mangan,  for  his  weather-worn  umbrella; 
and  from  the  day  he  was  raised  to  the  sub-deaconate 
until  a  short  time  before  his  death,  when  he  obtained 
a  dispensation  from  Rome,  he  was  faithful  to  the 
recitation  of  the  divine  office,  and  he  never  suffered 
a  scoff  or  jeer  directed  against  the  sacerdotal  charac- 
ter to  escape  unreproved. 

But  in  one  of  his  best  and  most  serious  papers, 
"Literature  and  the  Jesuits,"  he  indulges  in  droll- 
eries. "The  Groves  of  Blarney,"  writes  he,  in  this 
learned  paper,  "  do  not  better  deserve  the  honor  of  a 
pilgrimage  than  this  (Clongowes)  venerable  institu- 
tion. Lady  Morgan  wishes  to  explore  the  learned 
cave  of  these  literary  cenobites,  but  the  Sons  of 
Ignatius  '  smelt  a  rat,'  and  acted  on  the  principle  of 
the  Irish  Saint  Senanus,  who  wrote: 

' '  '  Quid  f oeminis 
Commune  est  cum  monachis? 
Nee  te,  nee  ullam  aliam 
Admittamus  in  insulam. ' 


404  IRISH   POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

However,  it  is  seldom  that  he  considers  Lady 
Morgan  or  her  sex  worthy  of  his  steel,  while  he 
always  seems  ready  and  willing  to  leap  astride  his 
Rosinante  and  "tilt  a  spear"  with  Dr.  Denis  Lard- 
ner,  or  that  mortal  whom  Shelley  styles 

"  The  sweetest  lyric  of  his  saddest  song." 

"  the  poet  of  all  circles  and  the  idol  of  his  own." 
The  learned  padre  handles  Tommy  without  gloves 
in  "  The  Rogueries  of  Tom  Moore/'  where  he  bare- 
facedly accuses  the  lyrist  of  pilfering  from  the  Greeks 
and  Romans,  and  even  the  French,  to  increase  the 
volume  of  his  song: 

' '  The  best  of  all  ways 
To  lengthen  our  lays 
Is  to  steal  a  few  thoughts  from  the  French,  my  dear." 

But  the  melodist's  plagiarisms  do  not  stop  here, 
nor  even  in  India,  whence  he  returns  spoliis  Orientis 
onustum,  but  he  must  descend  to  the  petty  larceny 
of  appropriating  one  of  Prout's  own  juvenile  effu- 
sions to  a  "  Beautiful  Milkmaid,"  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  cross  his  path  when  yet  a  tyro  in  Greek 
and  Latin  lore.  To  use  Prout's  inimitable  language, 
"  Everything  was  equally  acceptable  in  the  wa}^  of 
song  to  Tommy,  and  provided  I  brought  grist  to  his 
mill,  he  did  not  care  where  the  produce  came  from 
— even  the  wild  oats  and  thistles  of  native  growth 


REV.  FRANCIS   MAHONY.  405 

on  Watergrasshill,  all  was  good  provender  for  his 
Pegasus.  He  saw  my  youthful  effusion  to  an  Irish 
milkmaid,  grasped  it  with  avidity,  and  I  find  he  has 
given  it  word  for  word,  in  an  English  shape,  in  his 
'  Irish  Melodies.'  Let  the  intelligent  reader  judge 
if  he  has  done  common  justice  to  my  young  muse: 

IN  PULCHRAM   LACTIFERAM. 

CARMEN,   AUCTORE  PROUT. 

Lesbia  semper  hinc  et  inde, 

Oculorum  tela  movet; 
Captat  omnes,  sed  deinde, 

Quis  ametur  nemo  novit 
Palpebrarum,  Nora  cara, 

Lux  tuarum  non  est  foris, 
Flainma  micat  ibi  rara, 

Sed  sinceri  lux  amoris. 
Nora  Creina  sit  regina, 

Vultu,  gressu  tarn  modesto! 
Haec,  puellas  inter  bellas, 

Jure  omnium  dux  esto. 

Lesbia  vestes  auro  graves 

Fert  et  gemmis,  juxta  normam, 
Gratiae  sed,  eheu!  suaves 

Cine  tarn  reliquere  form  am. 
Norae  tunicam  praeferres 

Flante  zephyro  volantem, 
Oculis  et  raptis  erres 

Contemplando  ambulantem ! 


406  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

Veste  Nora,  tarn  decora, 

Semper  indui  momento, 
Semper  purae  sic  naturae 

Ibis  tecta  vestimento. 

Lesbia  mentis  praefert  lumen, 

Quod  coruscat  perlibenter, 
Sed  quis  optet  hoc  acumen 

Quando  acupuncta  dentur? 
Norse  sinu  cum  recliner, 

Dormio  luxuriose , 
Nil  corrugat  hoc  pulvinar, 

Nisi  crispae  ruga  rosae. 
Nora  blanda,  lux  amanda 

Expers  usque  tenebrarum, 
Tu  cor  mulces  per  tot  dulces 

Dotes,  fons  illecebrarum ! 

Compare  this  with  Moore's  "  Nora  Creina,"  and 
you  will  see  that  it  lacks  nothing  of  the  original  in 
rhyme,  rhythm  or  euphony,  and  that  Prout  is  as 
great  a  master  of  the  mechanism  of  verse  in  the 
Latin  as  Moore  in  the  English  tongue.  It  is  in  this 
paper,  also,  that  "  The  Bells  of  Shandon "  first 
appeared,  and  gained  for  the  gifted  author  a  place 
among  the  poets  of  his  country.  This  beautiful 
ballad  has  been  printed  in  innumerable  newspapers 
and  magazines,  and  consequently  must  be  familiar 
to  every  lover  of  literature. 


KEY.  FRANCIS   MAHONY. 

THE  SHANDON  BELLS. 

With  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  Bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasanj;  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glibe  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate — 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine; 
For  memory  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  the  belfry  knelling, 

Its  bold  notes  free, 


407 


408 


IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  ''Adrian's  Mole  "in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly — 
O!  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow, 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk,  O! 
In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer 
From  the  tapering  summits 

Of  tall  minarets. 


REV.  FRANCIS   MAHONY.  409 

Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them, 
But  there's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me — 
Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

The  first  of  the  Prout  Papers,  "  An  Apology  for 
Lent,"  appeared  in  Frazer's  for  April,  1834,  and  won 
its  author  a  place  among  the  best  and  most  brilliant 
of  those  whose  contributions  made  that  magazine 
one  of  the  raciest  and  most  readable  publications  in 
the  British  Isles.  Started  by  Hugh  Frazer  in  1830, 
this  magazine  was  placed  under  the  editorial  man- 
agement of  William  Maginn,  LL.D.,  a  fellow  towns- 
man of  Prout's,  and  also  of  the  talented  Daniel  Mac- 
Use,  ("  Alfred  Croquis,")  whose  etchings  illustrated 
and  adorned  the  pages  of  that  monthly,  which  reck- 
oned among  its  staff,  Southey,  Carlyle,  Ainsworth, 
Thackeray  and  Coleridge.  Yet  even  among  such 
literary  geniuses  the  editor  of  the  "  Reliques  "  does 
not  hesitate  to  say  that  "as  a  philologist,  as  a  wit, 
as  a  lyrist,  as  a  master  of  persiflage,  Frank  Mahony 
stepped  conspicuously  to  the  front  with  his  earliest 
contribution  to  Frazer's  Magazine."  In  many  of  the 
dead  and  most  of  the  modern  tongues  he  was  facile 


410  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

princeps;  and  this  fact  we  might  illustrate  by  numer- 
ous examples,  if  the  limits  of  this  paper  allowed. 
His  polyglot  edition  of  Mr.  Milliken's  "  Groves  of 
Blarney"  is  serio-comic.  The  idea  of  clothing  this 
quaint  rhapsody  in  an  Athenian  mantle  or  Gallican 
surtout  is  in  itself  sufficient  to  test  the  risible  facul- 
ties of  a  Stoic  philosopher.  Imagine  how  the  follow- 
ing lines  appear  in  Greek,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
Latin  rendering: 

There  is  a  stone  there 
That  whoever  kisses, 
Oh!  he  never  misses 
To  grow  eloquent. 
'Tis  "he  may  clamber 
To  a  lady's  chamber 
Or  become  a  member 
Of  parliament: 
A  clever  spouter 
He'll  turn  out,  or 
An  out-and-outer 
1  'To  be  let  alone;" 
Don't  hope  to  hinder  him, 
Or  to  bewilder  him; 
Sure  he's  a  pilgrim 
From  the  Blarney  Stone. 

"  The  Athenians,"  says  Father  Prout,  "-thought 
that  the  ghosts  of  departed  heroes  were  transferred 
to  our  fortunate  island,  which  they  call,  in  the  war 
songs  of  Hermodius  and  Aristogiton,  the  '  land  of 


REV.  FRANCIS  MAHONY,  411 

O's  and  Macs;'  and  so  the  *  Groves  of  Blarney  '  have 
been  commemorated  by  the  Greek  poets  many  cen- 
turies before  the  Christian  era."  When  our  author 
took  a  place  among  the  confreres  of  Frazer's  Magazine, 
he  was  thirty  years  of  age,  and  before  he  had  com- 
pleted his  thirty-second  year,  those  twenty-four  papers 
which  constitute  the  "  Reliques  of  Father  Prout " 
had  indelibly  stamped  his  name  in  brilliant  char- 
acters on  the  roll  of  literary  worthies.  Speaking  of 
the  merits  of  these  papers,  a  writer  in  the  Universal 
Review,  after  much  praise,  winds  up  in  the  following 
energetic  language:  "  They  are  a  mixture  of  tory- 
ism,  classicism,  sarcasm  and  punch."  Of  these 
papers,  "  A  Plea  for  Pilgrimages "  is  perhaps  in 
"larky  fun"  the  richest,  as  the  one  on  the  Jesuits  is 
certainly  the  most  learned.  In  this  latter  paper, 
which  he  illustrates  with  apt  and  ample  quotations 
from  the  poets,  he  evinces  throughout  his  undying 
gratitude  to  the  sons  of  Loyola  who  have  equally 
distinguished  themselves  in  the  Republic  of  Letters 
and  the  Monarchy  of  the  Church. 

Contrasting  the  neglect  with  which  Barry  the 
painter  was  treated  while  living,  and  the  public 
honors  paid  him  when  dead,  he  aptly  quotes  Fon- 
taine's "  Ode  to  Chateaubriand,"  which,  like  Gold- 
smith's "  Bed  by  night  and  chest  of  drawers  by 
day,"  will  serve  here  in  the  double  capacity  of  illus- 


412  IRISH   POETS  AND   NOVELISTS: 

trating  the  policy  above  referred  to,  and  at  the  same 
time  demonstrating  our  author's  ability  as  a  trans- 
lator from  the  French : 

ODE   TO   CHATEAUBRIAND. 

TRANSLATION. 

I  'VE  known  a  youth  with  genius  cursed — 
I  Ve  marked  his  eye  hope-lit  at  first , 
Then  seen  his  heart  indignant  burst , 

To  find  its  efforts  scorned. 
Soft  on  his  pensive  hour  I  stole, 
And  saw  him  draw,  with  anguish'd  soul, 
Glory's  immortal  inuster-roll, 

His  name  should  have  adornM. 

His  fate  had  been,  with  anxious  mind, 
To  chase  the  phantom  Fame — to  find 
His  grasp  eluded;  calm,  resigned, 

He  knows  his  doom — he  dies. 
Then  comes  Renown,  then  Fame  appears, 
Glory  proclaims  the  coffin  hers, 
Aye,  greenest  over  sepulchres 

Palm-tree  and  laurel  rise. 

After  severing  his  connection  with  Frazer's,  Father 
Mahony  returned  to  the  Continent,  where  he  spent 
his  remaining  years,  between  Rome  and  Paris,  in 
the  capacity  of  special  correspondent  to  the  London 
Daily  News  and  Globe,  writing  under  the  assumed 
name  of  u  Don  Jeremy  Savonarola."  Occasionally, 


REV.  FRANCIS   MAHONY.  413 

during  these  years  of  absence,  he  contributed  to  the 
Cornhill  Magazine,  edited  by  his  old  chum  Thackeray, 
and  also  to  Charles  Dickens'  publication,  Bentley's 
Miscellany.  He  recited  his  breviary  regularly  and 
though  well  he  knew  and  loved  "Vida"  and  "Virgil/' 
it  is  said  he  knew  and  loved  the  Roman  Psalter  still 
better.  On  account  of  failing  sight,  he  received,  a 
short  time  before  his  death,  a  dispensation  from  the 
divine  officje  substituting,  as  is  customary  in  such 
cases,  the  Rosary. 

At  length  came  warnings  of  the  final  summons 
— that  summons  which  consigns  alike  to  the  same 
common  clay  the  brightest  genius  and  the  most 
stupid  dullard — and  Father  Mahony  sent  to  the 
parish  church  of  St.  Roch  for  Abbe  Rogerson,  who 
attended  immediately,  and  found  his  penitent  well 
disposed  to  receive  the  last  rites  of  the  Church.  As 
there  is  much  misunderstanding  as  to  the  dispositions 
and  circumstances  in  which  Father  Mahony  died,  we 
shall  quote  here  the  words  of  his  confessor,  Abbe 
Rogerson,  referring  to  this  disputed  question.  Find- 
ing Father  Mahony  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  poorly 
clad  and  waiting  with  anxiety  the  coming  of  a  fellow- 
priest,  the  Abbe  now  writes: 

' '  Thanking  me  for  patient  and  persevering  attention  to  him 
during  his  sickness,  he  asked  pardon  of  me  and  of  the  whole 
world  for  offenses  committed  against  God  and  to  the  prejudice 


414  IRISH   POETS   AND   NOVELISTS: 

of  his  neighbor,  and  then  sinking  down  in  front  of  me  with  his 
face  buried  in  his  two  hands,  and  resting  them  on  my  knees,  he 
received  from  me,  with  convulsive  sobs,  the  words  of  absolution. 
His  genial  Irish  heart  was  full  to  overflowing,  *  *  *  and 
he  was  as  a  child  wearied  and  worn  out  after  a  day's  wander- 
ings when  it  had  been  lost  and  found  again,  when  it  had  hun- 
gered and  was  again  fed.  I  raised  him  up,  took  him  in  my 
arms,  and  laid  him  on  his  bed  as  I  would  have  treated  such  a 
little  wanderer  of  a  child,  and  left  him  without  leave-taking  on 
his  part ,  for  his  heart  was  too  full  for  words. " 

These  words  are  conclusive.  Prejudice  or  incre- 
dulity need  no  further  proof  on  this  head.  On  the 
morning  following  the  scene  just  narrated,  Abbe 
Rogerson,  on  entering  the  room  of  his  penitent,  was 
greeted  with  the  words,  "  Holy  oils,"  and  knowing 
their  import,  the  good  priest  hastened  to  anoint  the 
dying  priest  and  litterateur.  "  Hoi}7  oils"  were  the 
last  articulate  sounds  that  passed  Father  Mahony's 
lips.  On  the  18th  of  May,  1866,  he  tranquilly 
breathed  his  last  in  the  presence  of  his  sister  and 
his  confessor,  and  on  the  twenty-seventh  day  follow- 
ing his  remains  arrived  from  Paris  in  his  native 
city,  where  his  body  lay  in  state  at  St.  Patrick's 
church  till  the  morning  of  the  28th,  when,  after  a 
Mass  of  Requiem,  Bishop  Delaney  pronounced  the 
final  absolutions,  and  all  that  was  mortal  of  the  Rev. 
Francis  Mahony,  the  brilliant  wit  and  inimitable 
humorist,  was  deposited  in  the  family  vault  at  Old 


REV.  FRANCIS   MAHONY.  415 

Shandon,  there  to  await  the  resuscitating  summons 
— surge  ad  judicium. 

DON  IGNAOIO  LOYOLA'S  VIGIL 

IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  OUR  LADY  OF  MONTSERRAT. 

WHEN  at  thy  shrine ,  most  Holy  Maid  i 
The  Spaniard  hung  his  votive  blade : 

And  bared  his  helmed  brow- 
Not  that  he  feared  war's  visage  grim, 
Or  that  the  battle-field  for  him 

Had  aught  to  daunt,  I  trow: 

"  Glory!"  he  cried,  "  with  thee  I've  done! 
Fame!  thy  bright  theatres  I  shun, 

To  tread  fresh  pathways  now; 
To  track  THY  footsteps,  Saviour,  God! 
With  throbbing  heart,  with  feet  unshod; 

Hear  and  record  my  vow. 

'  Yes,  Thou  shalt  reign!     Chained  to  Thy  throne 
The  mind  of  man  Thy  sway  shall  own, 

And  to  it's  conqueror  bow. 
Genius  his  lyre  to  Thee  shall  lift, 
And  intellect  it's  choicest  gift 

Proudly  on  Thee  bestow." 

Straight  on  the  marble  floor  he  knelt. 
And  in  his  breast  exulting  felt 

A  vivid  furnace  glow; 
Forth  to  his  task  the  giant  sped, 
Earth  shook  abroad  beneath  his  tread, 

And  idols  were  laid  low. 


416  IRISH   POETS   AND  NOVELISTS: 

India  repaired  half  Europe's  loss; 
O'er  a  new  hemisphere  the  Cross 

Shone  in  the  azure  sky; 
And,  from  the  isles  of  far  Japan 
To  the  broad  Andes,  won  o'er  man 

A  bloodless  victory ! 

THE    TRI-COLOR. 

A  PROSECUTED  SONG. 

COMRADES,  around  this  humble  board, 

Here's  to  our  banner's  by-gone  splendor! 
There  may  be  treason  in  that  word — 
All  Europe  may  the  proof  afford — 
All  "France  be  the  offender; 

But  drink  the  toast 

That  gladdens  most, 

Fires  the  young  heart  and  cheers  the  old: 
May  France  once  more 

Her  tri-color 
Blessed  with  new  life  behold ! 

List  to  my  secret.     That  old  flag 

Under  my  bed  of  straw  is  hidden, 
Sacred  to  glory !     War-worn  rag ! 
Thee  no  informer  thence  shall  drag, 
Nor  dastard  spy  say  'tis  forbidden. 
France,  I  can  vouch, 
Will  from  its  couch, 
The  dormant  symbol  yet  unfold, 
And  wave  once  more 

Her  tri-color 
Through  Europe,  uncontrolled) 


REV.  FRANCIS   MAHONY.  417 

For  every  drop  of  blood  we  spent, 

Did  not  that  flag  give  value  plenty  ? 
Were  not  our  children  as  they  went 
Jocund,  to  join  the  warrior's  tent, 
Soldiers  at  ten,  heroes  at  twenty? 
FRANCE  !  who  were  then 
Your  noblemen  ? 

Not  they  of  parchment — must  and  mould! 
But  they  who  bore 

Your  tri-color 
Through  Europe,  uncontrolled! 

Leipsic  hath  seen  our  eagle  fall, 

Drunk  with  renown,  worn  out  with  glory; 
But,  with  the  emblem  of  old  Gaul 
Crowning  our  standard,  we'll  recall 
The  brighest  days  of  Valmy's  story! 
With  terror  pale 
Shall  despots  quail, 
When  in  their  ear  the  tale  is  told, 
Of  France  once  more 
Her  tricolor 
Preparing  to  unfold ! 

Trust  not  the  lawless  ruffian  chiel, 

Worse  than  the  vilest  monarch  he ! 
Down  with  the  dungeon  and  Bastile ! 
But  let  our  country  never  kneel 
To  that  grim  idol,  Anarchy! 
Strength  shall  appear 
On  our  frontier— 

28 


418  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

France  shall  be  Liberty's  stronghold! 
Then  earth  once  more 
The  tri-color 
With  blessings  shall  behold ! 

O  my  old  flag!  that  liest  hid, 

There  where  my  sword  and  musket  lie — 
Banner,  come  forth!  for  tears  unhid 
Are  filling  fast  a  warrior's  lid, 
Which  thou  alone  canst  dry. 
A  soldier's  grief 
Shall  find  relief, 

A  veteran's  heart  shall  be  consoled — 
France  shall  once  more 

Her  tri-color 
Triumphantly  unfold ! 


PRAY  FOR  ME. 

A   BALLAD. 


[From  the  French  of  Milleroye,  on  his  death-bed  at  the  village  of  Neuilly.] 


SILENT,  remote,  this  hamlet  seems — 

How  hushed  the  breeze !  the  eve  how  calm ! 
Light  through  my  dying  chamber  beams, 

But  hope  comes  not,  nor  healing  balm. 
Kind  villagers !  God  bless  your  shed ! 

Hark !  'tis  for  prayer — the  evening  bell — 
Oh,  stay!  and  near  my  dying  bed, 

Maiden,  for  me  your  rosary  tell! 


REV.  FRANCIS   MAHONY.  419 

When  leaves  shall  strew  the  waterfall 

In  the  sad  close  of  autumn  drear,     • 
Say,  "  The  sick  youth  is  freed  from  all 

The  pangs  and  woe  he  suffered  here." 
So  may  ye  speak  of  him  that's  gone ; 

But  when  your  belfry  tolls  my  knell, 
Pray  for  the  soul  of  that  lost  one — 

Maiden,  for  me  your  rosary  tell! 

Oh!  pity  her  in  sable  robe, 

Who  to  my  grassy  grave  will  come ; 
Nor  seek  a  hidden  wound  to  probe — 

She  was  my  love! — point  out  my  tomb; 
Tell  her  my  life  should  have  been  hers — 

'T  was  but  a  day!— God's  will!— 'tis  well; 
But  weep  for  her,  kind  villagers! 

Maiden,  for  me  your  rosary  tell! 

THE  BATTLE   OF  LEPANTO. 

LET  us  sing  how  the  boast  of  the  Saracen  host 

In  the  gulf  of  Lepanto  was  scattered, 
When  each  Knight  of  St.  John's  from  his  cannon  of  bronze, 

With  grape-shot  their  argosies  battered. 
Oh !  we  taught  the  Turks  then  that  of  Europe  the  men 

Could  defy  every  infidel  menace — 
And  that  still  o'er  the  main  float  the  galleys  of  Spain, 

And  the  red-lion  standard  of  Venice ! 

Quick  we  made  the  foe  skulk,  as  we  blazed  at  each  hulk, 

While  they  left  us  a  splinter  to  fire  at; 
And  the  rest  of  them  fled  o'er  the  waters,  blood  red 

With  the  gore  of  the  Ottoman  pirate ; 


420  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

And  our  navy  gave  chase  to  the  infidel  race, 

Nor  allowed  them  a  moment  to  rally; 
And  we  forced  them  at  length  to  acknowledge  our  strength 

In  the  tent,  in  the  field,  in  the  galley! 

Then  our  men  gave  a  shout  and  the  ocean  throughout 

Heard  of  Christendom's  triumph  with  rapture. 
Galleottes  eighty°$ine  of  the  enemy's  line 

To  oiir  swift-sailing  .ihips  fell  a  capture ; 
And  I  firmly  maintain  that  the  number  of  slain 

To  at  least  sixty  thousand  amounted: 
To  be  sure,  'twas  sad  work  if  the  life  of  a  Turk 

For  a  moment  were  worth  being  counted. 

We  may  well  feel  olate,  though  I'm  sorry  to  state, 

That  albeit  by  the  myriad  we've  slain  'em, 
Still,  the  sons  of  the  Gross  have  to  weep  for  the  loss 

Of  six  thousand  who  fell  by  the  Paynim. 
Full  atonement  was  due  for  each  man  that  they  slew, 

And  a  hecatomb  paid  for  each  hero; 
But  could  all  that  we'd  kill  give  a  son  to  Castile, 

Or  to  Malta  a  brave  cavalhero  ? 

St.  Mark  for  the  slain  intercedes  not  in  vain — 

There's  a  mass  at  each  altar  in  Venice; 
And  the  saints  we  implore  for  the  banner  they  bore 

Are  Our  Lady,  St.  George  and  St.  Denis. 
For  the  brave,  while  we  grieve,  in  our  hearts  they  shall  live, 

In  our  mouths  shall  their  praise  be  incessant; 
And  again  and  again  we  will  boast  of  the  men 

Who  have  humbled  the  pride  of  the  Crescent. 


REV.  FRANCIS  MAHONY.  421 

ODE  TO  THE  WIG  OF  FATHER  BOSCOVICH, 

THE  CELEBRATED  ASTRONOMER. 


[From  the  Italian  of  Julius  Caesar  Cerdara.] 


WITH  awe  I  look  on  that  peruke, 

Whore  learning  is  a  lodger, 
And  think,  whene'er  I  see  that  hair 
Which  now  you  wear,  some  ladye  fair 

Had  worn  it  once,  dear  Roger! 

On  empty  skull  most  beautiful 
Appeared,  no  doubt,  those  locks, 

Once  the  bright  grace  of  pretty  face; 

Now  far  more  proud  to  be  allowed 
To  deck  thy  "  knowledge  box." 

Condemned  to  pass  before  the  glass 

Whole  hours  each  blessed  morning, 
'Twas  desperate  long,  with  curling-tong 
And  tortoise  shell,  to  have  a  belle 
Thee  frizzing  and  adorning. 

Bright  ringlets  set  as  in  a  net, 

To  catch  us  men  like  fishes ! 
Your  every  lock  concealed  a  stock 
Of  female  wares — love's  pensive  cares, 

Vain  dreams,  and  futile  wishes! 

That  chevelure  has  caused,  I'm  sure, 

Full  many  a  lover's  quarrel; 
Then  it  was  decked  with  flowers  select 
And  myrtle  sprig;  but  now  a  WIG, 

'Tis  circled  with  a  laurel ! 


422  IBISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Where  fresh  and  new,  at  first  they  grew, 

Of  whims,  and  tricks,  and  fancies, 
Those  locks  at  best  were  but  a  nest; — 
Their  being  spread  on  learned  head 
Vastly  their  worth  enhances. 

From  flowers  exempt,  uncouth,  unkempt- 
Matted,  entangled,  thick! 

Mourn  not  the  loss  of  curl  or  gloss. 

Tis  infra  dig.     THOU  ART  THE  WIG 
OP  ROGER  BOSCOVICH  ! 


MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  FAREWELL  TO  SCULPTURE. 

I  FEEL  that  I  am  growing  old — 
My  lamp  of  clay!  thy  flame,  behold, 
'Gins  to  burn  low;  and  I've  unrolled 

My  life's  eventful  volume  I 
The  sea  has  borne  my  fragile  bark 
Close  to  the  shore — now  rising  dark, 
O'er  the  subsiding  wave  1  mark 

This  brief  world's  final  column. 

'Tis  time  my  soul,  for  pensive  mood, 

For  holy  calm  and  solitude; 

Then  cease  henceforward  to  delude 

Thyself  with  fleeting  vanity. 
The  pride  of  art,  the  sculptured  thought, 
Vain  idols  that  my  hand  hath  wrought — 
To  place  my  trust  in  such  were  naught 

But  sheer  insanity. 


REV.  FRANCIS   MAHONY.  423 

What  can  the  pencil's  power  achieve  ? 
What  can  the  chisel's  triumph  give  ? 
A  name  perhaps  on  earth  may  live, 

And  travel  to  posterity. 
But  can  proud  Rome's  Pantheon  tell 
If  for  the  soul  of  Raffaelle 
His  glorious  obsequies  could  quell 

The  JUDGMENT-SEAT'S  severity  ? 

Yet  why  should  Christ's  believer  fear, 
While  gazing  on  your  image  dear  ? — 
Image  adored,  maugre  the  sneer 

Of  miscreant  blasphemer. 
Are  not  those  arms  for  me  outspread  ? 
What  mean  those  thorns  upon  thy  head  ? 
And  shall  I,  wreathed  with  laurels,  tread 

Far  from  thy  paths,  Redeemer? 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  FATHER  PROUT. 

BY  DENIS  FLORENCE  M'CARTHY 

IN  deep  dejection,  but  with  affection, 

I  often  think  of  those  pleasant  times, 
In  the  days  of  Frazer,  ere  I  touched  a  razor, 

How  I  read  and  revelled  in  thy  racy  rhymes; 
When  in  wine  and  wassail  we  to  thee  were  vassal, 
Of  Watergrass  Hill,  O  renowned  "  F.  P."— 
May  "  The  Bells  of  Shandon" 
Toll  blithe  and  bland  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  thy  memory 


424  IRISH  POETS  AND  NOVELISTS: 

Full  many  a  ditty,  both  wise  and  witty, 

In  this  social  city  have  I  heard  since  then — 
(With  this  glass  before  me,  how  the  dreams  come  o'er  me, 

Of  those  attic  suppers,  and  those  vanished  men!) 
But  no  song  hath  woken,  whether  sung  or  spoken, 
Or  hath  left  a  token  of  such  joy  in  me, 
As  "  The  Bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  River  Lee." 

The  songs  melodious,  which — a  new  Harmodius — 
Young  Ireland  wreathed  round  its  rebel  sword, 
With  their  deep  vibrations  and  aspirations, 

Fling  a  glorious  madness  o'er  the  festive  board; 
But  to  me  seems  sweeter  the  melodious  metre 
Of  the  simple  lyric  that  we  owe  to  thee — 
Of  "  The  Bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  River  Lee. " 

There's  a  grave  that  rises  on  thy  sward,  Devises, 
Where  Moore  lies  sleeping  from  his  land  afar; 
And  a  white  stone  flashes  o'er  Goldsmith's  ashes 

In  the  quiet  cloister  of  Temple  Bar; 
So,  where'er  thou  sleepest,  with  a  love  that's  deepest 
Shall  thy  land  remember  thy  sweet  song  and  thee, 
While  the  "  Bells  of  Shandon 
Shall  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  River  Lee." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
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